


I Demand You Speak

by Maejones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, BAMF Molly, Dark Sherlock, Expect smut, F/M, Feels, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gritty, Humor, Love, Morgue activities, Murder, Mystery, Possessive Behavior, ShSpesh, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlolly - Freeform, The Abominable Bride, did I mention smut?, happy ending of course, mythea, salstrade, sombre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 85,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maejones/pseuds/Maejones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Abominable Bride special but obviously AU. This is a full time-period piece with historical accuracy to boot (I am a stickler for this). Expect it to be dark and gritty and very ACD (except for the smut, that's all me). Here is how I envision a Victorian origin story for Molly and Sherlock that utilizes some scenes/ideas from the special but is a fully immersive experience in that world. Murder, mystery, passion with always, always a great deal of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morgue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calicar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicar/gifts), [redtartart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtartart/gifts), [Badicea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badicea/gifts), [Moodyblue42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moodyblue42/gifts), [allaboutthenerdlife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allaboutthenerdlife/gifts).



> Obviously Fanfiction, I don't own these characters. Enjoy! This may or may not be my last story for awhile. I always finish them, even if the chapter updates take a couple of weeks. I try to update once a week but I started a new career which is really demanding so my writing pace has slowed. Also, I find historical harder to write and edit compared to contemporary works. So, please know that I am thinking about my stories constanatly and how to best torture you all. I try to respond to every comment or review because I appreciate you taking the time to do that. Thanks so much for reading. Seriously, I love my readers! You are the best.

   Molly Hooper poked her head out from between one of the brick alcoves in the morgue underneath St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. She looked anxiously up and down the yawning expanse of the shadowy room with its rows of tables bearing shrouded bodies. She had heard voices earlier and hid until they had gone. Her Uncle Mike Stamford’s cautionary words rang in her ears.

     _“Alright, alright, you can help me examine the bodies but for the love of God, stay out of sight! Lord, if anyone found out I let a woman down there, I’d be sacked on the spot.”_

    Well, she hardly looked like a woman garbed in breeches and her hair stuffed up into a page-boy’s cap. She could easily be mistaken for a courier or small orderly in the poorly lit basement.

 _'Morose Molly'_ was how her peers referred to her at college where she worked towards her medical degree. She had an unhealthy fascination with the dead, they all thought. Of course, Molly didn’t agree with that assessment. She had been orphaned at a young age and left in the care of a man who happened to be Bart’s chief medical examiner. What was unhealthy about wanting to follow in the footsteps of a beloved Uncle whom she adored beyond words? He had no children of his own and thus, no one else to carry on his legacy. Besides, what could be more exciting than discovering all the infinitesimally different ways a human could expire? The chemistry and mechanics of transforming from a living, breathing being into a lump of decaying flesh was a complex and poorly understood process. Most of her companions at school wanted to specialize in women’s health, a laudable goal, but she herself did not want to become a glorified mid-wife.

    Molly crept up to the corpse that had been the subject of her uncle’s most recent examination as well as a curiosity for a pair of investigators. Molly had only caught a glimpse of a tall man and his shorter companion before she hid. They were supposedly the infamous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson extolled in the papers. Unfortunately, she had not seen much of Mr. Holmes’ face but she had heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke. She inhaled a quivering breath as she remembered the way it seemed to penetrate her flesh and stir something visceral deep within the recesses of her belly.

    _“You are too ridiculous_ ,” Molly admonished herself quietly. _“He is probably hideous to behold.”_

    She shook her head and with one last glance around, stepped onto a bucket that had been flipped over and threw back the sheet covering the dead man everyone had been so keen to inspect.

    “Ooh!” She gasped.

     Dismembered! The naked, headless corpse was missing his hands and feet as well as another unmentionable part of his anatomy. How very peculiar! Her blood rushed in her ears as she quickly ascertained the probable cause of death was not the disarticulation of his peripherals but rather something else indeterminate to her at that moment. Her brows bunched together. She needed to get a better look. She hopped down from the bucket and headed towards the end of the morgue to retrieve a lamp.

    Halfway to her destination, she heard what she thought were footsteps and stopped. She held her breath. The morgue was silent as, well, Molly stifled a snort at her own silly pun,  _the dead_. She began moving again but then heard a whoosh of air at her back like someone sweeping past very quickly. She spun around but saw nothing. Her eyes searched every dark, arching enclave but most were dim abysses not keen to give up their secrets. Again, silence reigned until she heard the scuff of a boot on the stone and a pebble skipped across the floor. Her heart rate picked up then and started pounding between her temples. Her entire form stiffened in fear. Someone else was in the morgue!

    “H-Hello?” She called out, doing best to mask her voice and sound masculine. “Dr. Stamford?”

    A rasping chuckle echoed throughout the room. Molly’s fingers started trembling. She curled them into her palms and backed away towards the rear of the morgue where steps led out to the street. The laughter deepened and reverberated around her.

    “You are female,” a low voice intoned.

    The vibration in her fingers spread to her limbs and she started shaking all over. Yes, she was female, and a small one at that, she worried. She was acutely aware of her vulnerability all of a sudden. She abandoned all pretense.

    “Who are you?” she shouted. “I demand you speak!”

    Molly instantly realized how ludicrous her high, frightened voice sounded as it bounced off the walls. Panic overtook her and she whirled to make a run for it. Almost the moment she decided to flee, she heard the heavy slap of leather on the stone floor behind her. She shrieked. It was as if the very hounds of hell gave chase and nipped at her heels. Just as she made it to the stairs, a hand clamped around her elbow and she was jerked backwards. A scream tore from her throat and she started to thrash.

    “Bloody hell! Be quiet, urchin!” a booming voice demanded.

    Molly was spun, her arm twisted painfully into the small of her back and then she was pinned chest to chest against a very sizeable man. She didn’t even realize she was still screaming until a large hand covered half her face, including her mouth. Her hat, loosened in the struggle, slipped off her head and plopped to the floor. Her long hair tumbled down her back.

    “Stop wriggling,” his voice resonated throughout her whole body. “I am not going to hurt you. I am a regular visitor at these facilities. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

    Molly froze and stared wide eyed up at the illustrious detective. Her toes barely touched the floor. Each heaving breath he took seemed to lift her whole body. A nearby gas lamp illuminated his unusually handsome face. His dark hair was slicked back above a heavy brow, high, jutting cheekbones and perfectly formed, plush bow lips. She could not discern the colour of his eyes in the subdued light. Perhaps that was because they were angrily constricted and his pupils so expanded, they almost obliterated his irises.

    Sherlock Holmes, she recognized his voice at last. Lord, he wasn’t hideous at all. In addition to his unearthly beauty, he was finely dressed in a dark suit with an immaculately starched and pressed white shirt and black, silk cravat knotted at his throat.

    “As I said, I am not going to hurt you, child,” he murmured. “Now, if I remove my hand, will you promise not to scream?”

    Molly nodded. Slowly, he lifted each finger as he watched her warily but otherwise, his steely hold kept her trapped along his hard length.

     “I am not a ch-child,” she whispered, “I am eight and twenty.”

    His eyes flicked over her face. “So you are, my incompetent little thief. Are you not aware that any valuables these dead people might have had are removed from their person long before they are brought here? Hmm, you must be new at this. Why have you resorted to stealing at your age? There is much more money to be made in the world’s oldest profession or, ahem, is prostitution not to your liking?”

    Molly wanted to spit, she was so incensed. He said it all without derision, as if he were talking about the weather. Somehow, the lack of censure in his tone made her even angrier.

    “I am not a thief, you swine,” she hissed. “My name is Molly Hooper. I am the niece of Dr. Stamford and studying to become a physician. My uncle allows me to examine bodies as a supplement to my education.”

    Mr. Holmes frowned. His lips twitched at the corners and then parted. He didn’t immediately speak. Then, he shifted and she was jostled around before being secured once more against his hip. She gaped at his profile as his free hand stroked down her arm, gripped hers and held it up for inspection. His eyes darted back and forth as he analyzed each finger. His scowling face then turned back towards hers before his gaze flicked to her hair. He dropped her hand and gently grasped a handful of her tresses. He brought them to his nose and sniffed once. Then he inhaled more deeply a second time. He closed his eyes briefly and with a shake of his head, opened them again.

    “You speak the truth,” he muttered as he dropped his chin to make eye contact.

    Molly freed the lip she had been chewing. “Y-You can tell that from the smell of my hair?”

    “Well, the scent is quite … pleasant,” he spoke in a deep baritone, “but, also your nails are short and well-kept, exactly what I would expect of a prospective doctor. Your frame, while diminutive, is not malnourished. Your speech and enunciation reinforces your assertion that you are educated. Finally, I am an expert at detecting deception in a person’s tone.”

    Unexpectedly, she felt one of his long, elegant fingers caress her neck just over her voice box.

    “Speak,” he commanded in a rough voice.

    “Wh-What do you want me to say?” she stammered.

      “That will suffice,” his nostrils flared. “Your tone is very pure. I would say that you are, in fact, incapable of deceit.”

    Molly trembled all over, but it was no longer from fear. This man wreaked havoc on her sensibilities. She should be fighting to get away from him but instead, her body demanded more of him- more contact, more closeness. It did not seem to be enough for him to be in control of her at that moment, her instinct was to be possessed by him.

    Upon realizing the scandalous turn her thoughts had taken, her face flamed. She jerked her arm, still held fast in the hollow of her back and pushed at his unyielding chest.

    “Please,” she whispered. “Please, now that you accept who I am, let me go.”

     His brow wrinkled and then shot up as if he too just realized the unseemliness of their close contact. He released her with such haste, she almost fell over. Molly teetered back but willed herself to remain upright. She crossed her arms in mortification once she remembered that her clothing was very unladylike. Mr. Holmes smoothed the lapels of his blazer and adjusted his cuffs. She would give anything in that moment to be more appropriately attired.

      “Let us try this again, shall we?” he murmured before bowing his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Molly Hooper.”

      Molly swallowed as his intense gaze captured hers again and she could see the dance of a gas flame casting her reflection in his eyes. She would never forget her introduction to London’s most notorious detective for hire.

    She bobbed her head and curtsied as best as she could without skirts. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. The Examiner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is collected by Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 

     Molly rubbed her arms nervously. She was beginning to feel a bit of a chill. After their improper introduction, she didn’t know what else to say to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He regarded her with a faint scowl but otherwise his expression was unreadable. Another moment of tense silence ensued. She found herself unable to keep eye contact with him and cast her eyes downwards in search of her hat. Just as she spotted it, a large hand with perfectly groomed fingernails snatched it from the stone floor. She looked up to see Mr. Holmes slap the dust from it before he thrust it in her direction.

     “Here you are, though, you do not need to wear it on my account,” he murmured.

     Molly took the hat from his hand with a nod. “Thank-you, Mr. H-Holmes.”

     He bowed his head. Then an idea seemed to grip him. He lifted his chin, poked his lips out and moved them as if his words had not yet caught up to his thoughts. She held her breath in anticipation. The minor changes in his expression were fascinating to watch.

     “Miss Hooper,” he spoke at last, “might I ask something?”

     Her brows shot up. “Erm, yes, I-I suppose.”

     He gestured towards the table with the half-uncovered corpse. “What has you so fascinated about that particular body?”

      “O-Oh,” Molly stuttered, heat infused her face. “Um, you mean besides the fact that he is m-missing some . . . ahem, k-key pieces of his anatomy?”

      Mr. Holmes’ lips curved up at one corner. “Yes.”

      She twisted her hat in her hands. This man was known to be extraordinarily intelligent. Her uncle was forever extolling his brilliance at deducing a person’s cause of death with barely a glance and sometimes without even having seen the body. She ground her teeth in apprehension. She felt she was about to make a fool of herself, especially since he seemed to aggravate her tendency to stutter.

     “Well, I was curious about his mechanism of death as it is not obvious, i-is it?”

     He arched a brow. “No?”

     Molly’s face flushed. “I w-would like to get a b-better look at him with a lamp to be certain, of course.”

     Mr. Holmes nodded, strode to the far end of the morgue, plucked an oil lantern from the wall and lit it in a flourish with one of the matches from a nearby box. The match’s flare briefly enhanced his handsome face and her belly quivered strangely. She took a deep breath and hurried to meet him at the table with their corpse. With fumbling fingers, she coiled her long hair and stuffed it up under her cap lest it get in the way of her examination. Then, she climbed up on the bucket next to Mr. Holmes. When their shoulders brushed, she made the mistake of glancing at him and almost fell off the bucket. She was so close she could see the fine lines around his pale eyes which were the colour of a milky sea on a cloudy day. As she stared, transfixed by their luminosity, a crease appeared between his brows.

     “Miss Hooper?” His deep voice prodded.

     Her eyes flicked down to his full bottom lip.

     “Miss Hooper? The body?”

     Molly blinked a few times then tore her eyes away. Fire licked up her neck and into her face. If he didn’t already think she was mentally unbalanced, he might start.

      “Yes,” she refocussed on the right arm of the corpse, “yes, I was interested in these cuts . . .”

      She shook her head and picked up the arm of the dead man. Given the liver spots and rotund gut on an otherwise lean frame, she surmised he was somewhere between the age of fifty and sixty and had been dead more than three days. He was no longer in rigor mortis, rather, his limbs had slackened again. He was not a working man, he lacked the musculature of a life of labor as well as any discolouration on his neck or forearms from toil outside. She didn’t realize she was saying any of this aloud until she heard a murmur of agreement from Mr. Holmes.

      “Do go on, Miss Hooper,” he insisted, “this is less tedious than I expected.”

      Just as Molly was trying to decide if he had insulted her or not, a voice sounded at their backs.

     “That is high praise indeed coming from Sherlock Holmes,” a male said in a jocular tone.

      Molly whirled to see a man of modest stature standing alongside her uncle and in doing so, lost her footing. With a squeak, she flailed as the bucket squirted out from underneath her feet. However, she didn’t fall far. She was caught around the waist and secured against the hard torso of Mr. Holmes for the second time in a matter of minutes. She looked up into his hooded eyes. The corner of his nose and lip twitched.

      “Perhaps a bucket is not the best step stool, Miss Hooper,” he murmured.

      He set her down but took his time in releasing her completely. Her skin burned beneath her clothing where his hand had clamped on her waist. She looked up at the other two men anxiously. Her uncle had a scowl of disproval whilst the second man- a shorter, slim fellow in a brown tweed suit with a large mustache - had an incredulous grin. His eyes darted back and forth between her and Mr. Holmes.

      “Who is this, then?” He asked cheerfully.

      Her Uncle Mike removed his hat and rubbed a hand over his scalp before replacing it atop his head.

      He sighed. “Dr. Watson, allow me to introduce you to a person who is both the bane of my existence and my reason for getting up in the morning, my niece and ward, Miss Molly Hooper. My apologies if her presence causes offense but I have not been able to dissuade her from haunting my every footstep . . .”

      The small doctor shook his head and continued to smile as if he were a cat who had caught himself a plump rat. He stepped forward, removed his hat and offered a hand.

      “Miss Hooper . . . oh, um, should I?” He retracted his hand if unsure before extending it again.

      Molly reached forward. Dr. Watson hesitated once more.

      Mr. Holmes sputtered a sigh. “Oh, for God’s sake, Watson, shake her hand! She is wearing pants, after all.”

      Dr. Watson shot a frown at his cohort before shaking her hand vigorously. “I am, erm, delighted to meet you.”

     “Likewise,” she dipped her head.

     “Mr. Holmes,” Uncle Mike prompted tentatively, “has my niece been making herself a nuisance?”

     Molly crossed her arms as she stuck out a petulant lip at her uncle. He gave her a hard stare in return and shook his head. She clenched her teeth. She knew she was going to get an earful later for getting caught in his morgue. 

     Mr. Holmes eyes narrowed as he glanced between them. “On the contrary, it is I who have proved an encumbrance to Miss Hooper’s examination. I mistook her for a burglar before I realized what she was doing.”

     Uncle Mike tapped his hand to his forehead. “Ack, I do not blame you, Mr. Holmes. That is partially my fault as I required her to be discreet about her activities. She took that to mean dressing like, ahem, . . . a man. Dear God, that sounds terrible. You two must think I am a dreadfully indulgent to let her do this but she _is_ attending a women’s medical college. So, her activities are at least somewhat legitimate-“

     “Miss Hooper, you were examining the body?” Dr. Watson interjected.

     Molly nodded.

     “You like that sort of thing?” Dr. Watson asked, his smile broadening (if that were possible at this point).

     She nodded again.

     “Brilliant! What have you found?”

     She suppressed a smile as Mr. Holmes pursed his lips and his forehead furrow deepened. She wondered if she observed his reaction correctly. Was the renowned detective a wee bit resentful of the attention she garnered? Her eyes slid away from him towards the corpse again. She thoroughly inspected the wounds and surrounding tissues by the light of the oil lantern before making her pronouncement.

      “This man was quite dead before his limbs were removed. I would say he was deceased at least twelve hours because the blood did not flow from these openings, it had already congealed. These cuts are not what killed him.”

       “Tell us something we do not already know,” Mr. Holmes muttered as he fiddled with the gold chain on his pocket watch, then extracted it to ascertain the time. “I am sorry, Miss Hooper. While Watson might find this spectacle entertaining, I grow weary of it. I made these observations an hour ago. I thought you might postulate a cause of death but it seems you have little talent beyond stating the blatantly obvious.”

     Molly’s eyes rounded and her breathing faltered. She felt struck and was forced to bite her lip as it trembled. What a ninny she had been in thinking he admired her skills when in fact, he must have been humoring her. How duplicitous he was! He had drawn her in like exotic flora only to blister her with his toxic exterior. She gawped at him a few seconds longer. His expression was one of boredom until their eyes met. For a moment, she thought he appeared regretful until his face hardened. Then, he set the oil lamp down next to the corpse’s legs and turned on his heel.

     “Come, Watson, we have lingered here long enough.”

     John grimaced, mouthed an apology and bowed his head. He hurried after his companion.

     “B-But you don’t even know the cause of death yet, Holmes.”

     His head inclined towards the shorter man's. “It was a head injury of some sort.  Possibly a blow which cracked the skull or a gunshot. Never fear, we will sort out how he was murdered. We just need to find his head.”

     Molly sniffed as she looked back at the body. Her throat constricted as her uncle began to scold her under his breath.

     “It was foolish of me to allow you down here, Molly.”

     Tears stung her eyes. What had she missed? There was something, there had to be. Then, an idea nearly knocked her over. She scrambled around the table, sprinted to the middle of the morgue and called after the pair of investigators just as they stepped onto the stairs leading from the room.

     “He hanged himself!”

     That stopped Sherlock Holmes dead in his tracks. His head swivelled in her direction with a confused frown on his face. He blinked a few times before slowly descending the steps and coming towards her.

      “A man is missing his most valued appendage and you have the gall to claim it was self-inflicted?” His deep timber reverberated throughout the room and crashed around her like a sloshing tide.

      Molly raised her chin. “He. Hanged. Himself.”

      Mr. Holmes’ head tilted sideways. His eyes seemed to bore right through her.

     “Your evidence?” He brushed by her on his way back to the examining table with Dr. Watson close behind.

      She felt her nostrils flare as she talked to his broad back. “In fact, little. I deduce by difference. If your theory was correct and he had suffered a head injury, there would be noticeable livor mortis or pooling of the blood on whichever side the murderer let him lie until he or she decided to cut off his limbs. However, blood did not collect on one side of the body or the other, rather, it looks as if it was allowed to accumulate in his limbs. There is some evidence of blood settling just above the missing appendages. Furthermore, while the head is missing, some of the neck remains and the skin and tissue beneath shows evidence of bruising, consistent with someone who has been hanged.”

    The detective hovered over the corpse, his shoulders hunched as he closely inspected the areas she had mentioned. Then he straightened to his full height. Light glinted from the waves of his slicked back hair.

      “Yet, one must still concede foul play was involved, Miss Hooper. The major flaw in your logic is that you do not ascribe enough significance to the missing appendages.”

      She sniffed. “I believe you ascribe far too much. Can you not consider that rather than the dismemberment predicating the crime, the crime predicated the dismemberment?”

       Dr. Watson sputtered a breath from his lips. “Good Lord, Holmes, I believe you have met your match when it comes to speaking in riddles.”

      Mr. Holmes turned slowly then. He folded his fingers together under his nose. Molly took a breath and continued.

      “I _postulate_ that this man was a person of some note but not so well known anyone might notice he was missing straight away. For whatever reason, he hanged himself. A loved one discovered him hours and hours later, long after his blood began to set. His face would have been grotesque, his hands and feet and, erm, anything else that dangled would have been dark and discolored. Suicide is a sin, Mr. Holmes. The shame of it is not limited to the person who has committed the act in our society, it extends to that person’s family, sometimes for decades. What better way to obscure his identity and the taking of his own life than remove the evidence of both?”

      Molly was breathless by the end of her sermon. Her chest rose and fell with each inhalation. She did not know where all that had come from but she had experienced such a moment of clarity it was as if a clairvoyant had been whispering in her ear. Dr. Watson and her uncle stared unblinkingly at her. Mr. Holmes’ eyes went wide. His head drifted back and his lips slackened as if he had been drawn into her vision. Then he looked at her and gave his head a shake. His eyes scanned right and left over her face several times.

     “Your reasoning is sound,” he hissed through his teeth. “No, strike that, you are absolutely correct. Damn! I have been blind.”

      Dr. Watson cleared his throat. “Might I venture that you could _see_ , but you did not _observe_?”

     Mr. Holmes wrinkled his nose and sneered his friend. “Your attempts at humor are unnecessary, Watson. Your so-called contributions to this case have been parody enough.”

     John scoffed and waved his hand. The great detective finally looked at Molly again and then bent forward at the waist with a bow.

     “Miss Hooper, despite your ridiculous attempts at concealing your sex and stammer, you have proven yourself skilful.  Do you have designs on making a career out of this?”

     Her Uncle Mike started coughing. “Good heavens, the very idea!”

     She shrugged, half-giddy and half-irritated by his backhanded compliment. “I cannot say, Mr. Holmes. I do not lack in will, to be sure. It is just . . . I believe there would be many obstacles to my becoming an examiner, not the least of which is gaining the confidence of those who would be disinclined to accept a woman’s opinion on these matters.”

     Mr. Holmes lifted his chin.

     “If you allow your ambitions to be dictated by mediocracy, Miss Hooper, you will never rise above it. However, I do appreciate how difficult this path might be for you. Even I sometimes feel as if I am suffocated by the middling, they certainly do outnumber us enormously,” he took turns cracking his knuckles into his palms. “So perhaps I can offer you a solution for the time being. I am in need of someone available on short notice and at all hours of the day so that they may perform post mortems to my stringent requirements. I would enlist your uncle but he is often too busy to assist me. You know my reputation, if you become my examiner your acceptance into this line of work will be all but assured.”

      Molly glanced quickly to her uncle. His lips were stretched together in a thin line.

      “Would that be alright, Uncle?” She asked tentatively.

      Her Uncle Mike sighed. “Molly, my dear girl, I worry about what people will say about you if I allow this. It would be improper for you, an unmarried woman, to work alongside Mr. Holmes.”

     Mr. Holmes grinned from ear to ear. “Do not concern yourself about your pretty niece, Dr. Stamford. I promise, I have no interest in her beyond what assistance she might provide in my investigations.”

     Both Dr. Watson and Dr. Stamford raised a brow.

     “I am not worried about that, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Stamford muttered. “Molly, you must understand the repercussions. You are already well past your prime in terms of marriageable age. If you pursue this, you will most likely be shunned from all good society and never marry.”

     Molly’s hands trembled. She looked from her uncle, to Dr. Watson, and finally to Mr. Holmes who seemed to be lost in thought all of a sudden. What a terrible choice to have to make! As she gazed upon the stoic profile of Mr. Holmes, a bittersweet vision of boisterous, bright-eyed and dark haired children bounded through her imagination. She choked back overwhelming sadness as the image faded. As heartbreaking as it was to imagine a live devoid of companionship and family, she could not fathom sacrificing her dreams on the off chance she might find a man willing to overlook her peculiar tendencies. If she could not be herself, if she could not find fulfillment, she was convinced she could never be a good wife and mother. She clasped her hands together to stop their shaking and smiled in resignation.

      “Ah, well, Uncle,” she said with a heavy heart, “as you said, I am well past my prime. At least now my reluctant suitors will have a proper excuse to turn their noses up at me.”

       Molly looked at Mr. Holmes. He had an odd frown on his face as he gazed back in return.

      “What is your answer then, Miss Hooper? Will you be mine . . . mm, ahem, I mean, my examiner?” He asked.

      Molly's heart inexplicably fluttered. “Yes, I will.”


	3. The Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is invited to a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Holmes is grumpy. Tsk, tsk, why is that?

**One month later.**

     _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

     Molly popped up from her bed like a broken spring poking through a seat. The insistent pounding reverberated through the house again. She heard the door down the hall from hers creak open. Then her uncle start swearing.

     “Who could be calling at this ungodly hour?” came his muffled complaint.

     She bounded from her bed and threw open her door. “Uncle?”

     Her uncle looked up and hissed as a match he'd used to light the candles outside his room burned his fingers. He swore and struck another one to illuminate his oil lamp. The wick flared to life brightly, forcing him to squint before he managed to turn it back down. Once more, three heavy raps beat a percussion through their residence like a marching band’s drum. Her uncle hurried to better secure his robe and clean his glasses.

     “Go back to bed, my dear, and for God’s sake, lock the door to your room.”

     “Do not be ridiculous.” She reached back and grabbed her own dressing gown from the hook behind the door to cover her cotton nightdress. “I will not let you answer that door on your own. What if it is bandits?”

     He sighed noisily. “Exactly! Lord, you are foolhardy at times.”

     She stuck her lip out but then thought of something. “Ooh! Wait a tick.”

     Molly returned to her room, patted the top of her wardrobe until she located her new pistol, and then sprung back into the narrow hall. She struck a pose with it. When her uncle saw what she held, he reacted with a start. The chimney on his lamp rattled on its base.

     “Good lord, Molly Hooper! Where on earth did you get that?”

     She licked her bottom lip as she gazed down at the colt revolver. The number 1-8-7-3 was stamped into its wooden handle.

     “M-Mr. Holmes sent it over two days ago. His note explained that as one of his, ahem, deputies, I-I needed to be armed.”

     Her uncle shook his head. “Do you even know how to use that contraption?”

     She wrinkled her nose as she stroked the length of the nozzle absentmindedly.

     “Erm, n-no, but he wrote that he intended to educate me about its use. However, how hard can it be? I mean, you just point and shoot.” She raised the gun and pretended to fire.

     Her uncle’s eyes rounded and he rushed over to her. He gently took the gun from her hand and flipped the barrel open to reveal its chambers.

     “Bloody hell,” he curse while knocking from below resounded insistently again, “it is loaded! I am going to have a word with that man but first, let us deal with whomever it is disturbing our peace.”

      Molly followed her uncle down the narrow stairs with their fraying carpet. They met Mr. Gomery, her uncle’s long-time steward and butler in the foyer. He was older than time, the poor fellow. His thin, white hair was in disarray. She could almost hear his joints groaning in protest as he shuffled towards the door. He looked up just as they joined him near the door.

     “Dr. Stamford, Miss Molly,” he blustered, “there really was no need for you to get out of bed.”

     “I should say the same to you, Gomery! It is your night off,” her uncle returned sternly.

     “Pfft!” Mr. Gomery snorted.

      He scurried to the door and flipped aside the brass peep gate. “Eh, who is it?”

      “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, sir," came the faint reply. "My apologies for the late hour, but it is urgent.”

      Her uncle cleared his throat and sighed. “Let him in, Gomery.”

      The officer was invited inside while Gomery set about lighting the lamps in the foyer. While most of the homes in the area had converted to electric lighting, they hadn’t yet made the transition. Even though her uncle was a doctor, he still wasn’t as well-to-do as many of the people only a few streets over and neither he nor Gomery were enthused about making such a drastic change to their long-time residence. Molly, of course, was forever haranguing her uncle about the benefits of electricity in the home. After all, it meant more than just convenience of flipping a switch for illumination. Every day she learned of some new electric appliance designed to lessen the burden of a home’s chores. The possibilities were endless.

     “Dr. Stamford, I did not realize this was your residence,” the Inspector said as he stepped into their home.

      Her uncle's brow wrinkled. “Is that so?”

     Her attention turned back towards the inspector as he shook her uncle’s hand. He was garbed in a dark brown suit and smart brown derby. He had a winsome smile and kind, brown eyes. Like many gentlemen around the city, he was clean shaven except for his bushy sideburns. When he doffed his hat, she saw that his hair was a longish, sandy blonde hue streaked with grey. Introductions were made. Molly felt her face go warm as he assessed her night clothes with wide eyes. He glanced away quickly.

     “I beg your pardon,” he mumbled and then his eyes skittered back to Molly again. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes asked me to fetch his examiner from this address. Hooper was the name he gave me. I gather that must be your brother or something, eh, Miss?”

      Her uncle coughed. “No, that would be Molly herself, in actual fact.”

      Inspector Lestrade’s brows shot up. “Truly?"

      Molly felt her forehead bunch. “He wants me to go with you now? It is past midnight!”

      Dr. Stamford snorted a laugh. “Ah, well, did not I ever tell you about the joys of Mr. Holmes’ reliance? He claims he does his best thinking at night. See, my niece here quite impressed the great detective, Inspector, and Molly wants to make a name for herself so she eagerly accepted the role of his consulting examiner.”

     She pursed her lips as she observed knowing grins spread across both her uncle and the Inspector’s face. The pair of them thought they shared secret knowledge. Wankers!

     “Cannot this wait until tomorrow?” Molly muttered.

     Inspector Lestrade blinked innocently and shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no! Oh, he was quite insistent, Miss. In fact, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson await us at the scene of the crime. Mr. Holmes was suffering an ill humor when I left him. It would be best if we did not make him wait any more than absolutely necessary.”

     Molly pressed her lips together as her uncle choked on a laugh. He enjoyed himself far too much at her expense. Truth be told, being at Mr. Holmes’ disposal had not been as exciting as she had hoped, and it was proving itself inconvenient as well. In the month since they had met, she had not even seen the man in the flesh again. He had sent one missive asking for her best guess on how long it would take for fly larvae to mature when the ambient temperature was between 40 and 45 degrees Fahrenheit. A week later he had couriered over a rotting arm and asked for her to provide a written an opinion on the age and gender of its former owner. Then only a few short days ago, a gun had arrived. At that moment, he required her to get into a hack with a stranger and attend a murder scene. Well, she would not give her uncle the satisfaction of revelling in his sanctimony.

      “The good detective will not begrudge me a few minutes to change into more appropriate attire, will he?”

     Inspector Lestrade shrugged. “I cannot say.”

     Molly lifted her chin and whirled back towards the stairs. “Well, it matters not. We will get there when we get there.”

          *   *   *

     Molly smoothed her hands over her skirts as the hack bounced to a stop in front of a posh town home in one of the wealthier districts in London. Her palms sweated. She was about to encounter Mr. Sherlock Holmes again. A month had done little to dispel the quiver of her insides every time she remembered the intensity of his gaze.

      “This would be it,” Inspector Lestrade murmured.

      He hopped out of the hack and held the door. Molly scooted from her seat and followed him. She glanced up at the three-story townhouse with its white brick and plaster façade and statuesque columns as she stepped to the carriage's opening. There was something menacing about the house for some reason as if the light from the gas street lamps couldn’t quite chase its darkness away. Then a bit of movement from the ground floor windows caught her eye and she saw a shadowy form loom between the curtains of the nearest window.

     “Oop! Eep!”

     In her preoccupation, she missed the steel step on the hack and found herself pitching forward. Her stomach heaved as the murky cobblestones seemed to rush towards her face. She threw her hands out and mercifully, was saved from grievous injury by crashing into the solid frame of Inspector Lestrade. He teetered back a couple of steps but managed to cradle her in his arms like a doll.

     “You alright, Miss Hooper?” he asked, somewhat winded.

     Molly felt a rush of heat infuse her face. She’d had zero interaction with the opposite sex in her twenty-eight years but in the span of a month, found herself not once or twice, but thrice in the arms of a pair of very attractive men.

     “I-I am well, Inspector,” she stammered, feeling rather awkward as he shifted her weight. “I just lost my footing.”

     A half-smile pulled at the side of his mouth. “Are you sure you are not injured a wee bit?”

     She shook her head. “I am positive.”

     “Well, bollocks,” he chuckled. “Now I will not have an excuse to carry you to the door.”

     She must have blushed very furiously then because she could feel flames lick up her cheeks. Reluctantly, Lestrade set her down on the sidewalk. She glanced back up to the house as her arm snaked from his neck but the figure in the window was long gone. She hoped whomever it was hadn’t witnessed her graceless tumble from the carriage. 

     They were greeted at the door by Dr. Watson who ushered them into the home. He filled them in on the situation as they removed their coats. Molly learned that there was a dead man in the basement in the hall outside the servant’s quarters. Apparently he had a poker in his back. Unusual, but even more so given that no one who lived in the house seemed to know his identity. After the discovery, the family had departed and along with them, most of the staff. Only a middle-aged butler remained. He was a weary, ashen man who couldn’t even muster a surprised reaction to the arrival of an unknown woman.

     “I was about to bring Mr. Holmes some tea in the parlor,” he said with a heavy sigh, “would you care for some as well, Miss?”

     She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

     The butler nodded and disappeared towards the back of the house. Dr. Watson led them over the marble floors and through a passage into the front parlor. Molly’s breath hitched when she saw Mr. Holmes’ profile across the room. He gazed intently at the coal hearth. He had a hawkish look on his face and a slight frown as if he stalked his own thoughts like prey. She clasped her hands together to quell their vibration. Even at a distance, seated and his focus elsewhere, the man made her anxious. Her tongue seemed to swell in her mouth. He was impeccably dressed in a very dark brown tweed suit, cream coloured shirt and burnt orange cravat. His hair, heavy with pomade, was slicked tightly to his scalp. An unexpected wash of sensation flooded her internals. Her skin tightened up the back of her neck and over her head.

     Oh, it was not even a little bit good to react to him in this manner.

     “Holmes?” Dr. Watson prodded. “Inspector Lestrade has brought your examiner.”

     She braced herself for the eye contact to come. However, instead of acknowledging her presence, he continued to stare straight ahead. She might have thought he was oblivious but a flash of irritation caused his handsome brow to twitch and a muscle set in his jaw. She chewed her lip. He might have the men fooled into thinking he was distracted by his own contemplations, but she knew he was aware of her arrival.

     “Holmes?” Dr. Watson repeated, his brows raised.

     The fingers that had been steepled under the large man’s nose flicked up dismissively. “Miss Hooper may return to her residence. She is no longer needed.”

      Annoyance swiftly replaced Molly’s apprehension. She had dragged herself from her bed, dressed in one of her better frocks (she'd had some absurd notion to counter Mr. Holmes' first impression of her in men's clothing) and travelled halfway across London to come to his aid. Needless to say, she was not impressed with his dismissal.

     “You fetched me from my home in the middle of the night, sir," she declared in as clear a voice as she'd ever heard herself speak. "You will have my council whether it is needed or not!”

     Both Lestrade and Dr. Watson whistled at her flanks.  When Mr. Homes scoffed, Dr. Watson mumbled something unintelligible and started shaking his head. Mr.  Holmes scowled at his friend. Dr. Watson gave him a hard stare in return.

     The detective’s head swivelled towards her in a kind of vexed surprise. “Indeed?”

     Mr. Holmes pushed himself up from his seat and crossed the room. Molly clapped her lips together. She tilted her chin up as he hovered over her. His eyes flitted briefly past her shoulder towards Lestrade before settling back on her with dark concentration.

     “I would have your focus,” he bit out. “Are you certain you are not distracted?”

      “Oh, I assure you, Mr. Holmes,” she replied dryly, “you have my full attention.”

      His nose twitched. As he assessed her, his chin drifted upwards. He then appeared to make a decision.

     “Come view the body then,” he muttered as he brushed by her, “perhaps you can offer some small contribution.”

     Molly inhaled a shaky breath as she gathered her skirts and rushed after him. She had to take three steps for each of his long strides towards the back of the house. Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson followed closely. At one point, the towering detective abruptly turned. Molly skidded to a stop at the opening to the top of a set of narrow stairs that led downwards into darkness. In his dark attire and with his dark hair, Mr. Holmes was quickly enveloped by the gloom. Dr. Watson must not have been paying attention because he bumped into her and she had to grip the edge of the wall so as not to plunge down the steps.

      “Oh, good Lord! I beg your forgiveness, Miss Hooper,” he muttered.

      Molly inhaled deeply as she faced him. “So sorry myself, Doctor. I did not know he was going to turn here.”

     “Yes, well, one rarely knows which direction his thoughts are going to take, especially when he is aggravated.”

     Molly wrinkled her nose. “Oh, is this not his usual humor? I mean, does he even have other dispositions?”

     Lestrade’s cheeks puffed behind the doctor as he appeared to suppress a laugh. “Normally, a good murder sees him at his best temperament. In fact, it is not decent, but he becomes downright jovial.”

     She worried her lip. “Hmm, I see . . .”

     She opened her mouth again, her lips formed a slack ‘o’ as she thought.

     “Did something particular happen this evening to put him in this mood?”

     The two men exchanged glances. Dr. Watson cleared his throat. He was about to answer when Mr. Holmes thundered up the basement steps from below. His entire face was lined with the crevasses of a furious frown.

     “Again you lot dawdle! Is this caused by the female in our midst or symptomatic of it?” he growled. “Either way, I am regretting her inclusion.”

     Both Dr. Watson and Lestrade flushed pink. Molly sighed in frustration, then her heart fell as the detective and her made eye contact once more. This was not going well at all. She wondered if Mr. Holmes would bother with a continuance of their arrangement and consequently, if this was the last time she would ever see him. Her pragmatic inner voice crowed that it was probably for the best. She gulped back a lump as her throat inexplicably constricted. Everything about him had a physical effect on her and it was exhausting trying to maintain her composure, yet she did not want their association to end.

     Unexpectedly, Mr. Holmes’ hand extended in her direction. She blinked at his immaculately clad forearm in confusion.

     “These steps are quite steep and uneven, Miss Hooper,” he said gruffly, “and it is very dark.”

     “O-Oh-” she tentatively took his arm “-of course.”

      His muscles beneath her fingers flexed and the world around her disappeared. The bubble she found herself in shrank until all she was aware of was his steely arm and imposing presence. She did not even register what became of Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade. She gazed down the stairs. The passage was too narrow for them to descend side-by-side so Mr. Holmes led the way and she ended up at his back, holding onto his arm just above his wrist. When she slipped slightly on one of the stairs, his hand clamped around her forearm from underneath. It was an odd kind of embrace. They were not quite holding hands but it almost felt that way. At the bottom of the stairs, Molly expected Mr. Holmes to relinquish his hold but instead he led her down a hall and came to a stop. She looked down to see the bottom of a shoe but Mr. Holmes’ frame blocked her view of the body on the floor. He looked over his shoulder with a brow raised. He squeezed her arm.

     “Are you prepared to see this?” he murmured.

     She nodded. “I am sure I have seen worse things in the morgue, Mr. Holmes.”

     The one eye she could see narrowed. “Yes, but this is not some corpse on a slab, Miss Hooper. This is a man lying dead in the place he spent his final moments. Death stalked this corridor . . . the shadow of his scythe remains.”

     Mr. Holmes’ resonant voice sent shivers through her entire form. She gripped his arm briefly, uncertain if she wanted to bear witness to such intimate details of this person’s passing. After a few steadying breaths, she nodded her head once.

     “I am ready.”

     Mr. Holmes released her arm and stepped past the body on the floor. Molly turned her gaze downwards. She bit her lip. The scene was as it had been described by Dr. Watson, yet still shocking in a way. Moonlight bathed the humped figure of a young man who still had a decorative, forged iron poker sticking out of his back. Blood stained his clothing around the injury and pooled under his chest. Tears burned the back of her eyes. This was real in a way that the dead at the morgue never had been. It was the frozen, finality of this man's life.

     “Wh-What do you need my opinion on, Mr. Holmes?” she whispered.

     He dipped his head grimly and kneeled down next to the body. “You are here to settle an argument, Miss Hooper.”

     “An argument?” she repeated.

     “A difference of opinion,” came the sharp retort of Dr. Watson to her rear. "Here you are, Miss Hooper."

      The doctor handed her an oil lamp.     

      She glanced at him and Inspector Lestrade. “What do you mean by that?”

      Molly turned her attention back to Mr. Holmes. He cricked his neck, then spoke again.

      “Watson and Lestrade believe some ruffian from the streets is responsible for this man’s death. I, however, do not.”

      “Y-You don’t?”

       He shook his head slowly. “No, I believe the murderer was a woman and most likely, someone who lives under this very roof.”


	4. The Expert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the eloquent Mr. Holmes suffers from foot-in-mouth disease from time to time.

      Molly’s eyes flicked from the corpse on the floor back to Mr. Holmes once more. He squinted at her as if pondering something before sighing noisily and reaching into his pocket. He rubbed his lips together, poked the tip of a curved pipe between them and reached into his pocket again. Her own lips felt tight as she fought against gravity pulling them down. He looked bored as he dipped his head, struck a match and brought it to the bowl. A few puffs later, he blinked slowly with a dark, derisive gaze. Smoke curled upwards around his cheeks, dissipating towards the ceiling. Its pungent aroma filled her nostrils. Normally, she detested the smell of smoke but whatever tobacco he used had an exotic, spiced note to it - not unlike the man himself.

     She cursed her libidinous inclinations where he was concerned. In so many ways, he infuriated her yet she could find no fault in his appeal. That in and of itself spelled trouble. Why on earth had she agreed to work with him?

     “So, do you have anything to contribute or are you simply here as decoration?” he murmured in a tone that vibrated through her like a tuning fork, a stream of smoke jetted from his nostrils.

     Molly was about to reply but caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked down to where Dr. Watson crouched next to the body. His head came up and his brow twisted in confusion. He snapped his head sideways as he assessed his consulting detective companion. He then looked at Molly and back at Mr. Holmes again as if trying to sort something out. Then he glanced up at Inspector Lestrade with large eyes full of disbelief. A silent exchange went between them. Lestrade smirked and shrugged. Finally, Molly cleared her throat. These men were maddening with their secret communications.

      “Y-You say you believe a woman is responsible for this?” she asked. “What are your reasons?”

      Mr. Holmes crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. His pipe bobbed in his mouth as he spoke.

      “It is quite obvious,” he drawled. “He was stabbed in the back, hardly something a man would do. No, that kind of subversiveness in the commission of a crime is indicative of a woman being responsible.”

      Molly’s nose wrinkled. Hot breaths poured from her nostrils. His opinion of her gender was abhorrent. He pushed himself from the wall and stepped towards her with constricted eyes. A wrinkle formed above his heavy brow.

      “You disagree?” He asked in a challenging tone.

      She lifted her chin. “With your conclusion? No. Your reasoning, however . . . well, let us just say I thought you of all people might be more insightful about my sex.”

      Dr. Watson snorted. Lestrade chuckled. Mr. Holmes plucked the pipe from his mouth and glowered at her in disbelief.  Molly flushed under his gaze. Warmth spread across her chest and up her neck. Oh, Lord, she had done it this time. What was she thinking insulting him in such a manner? He looked ready to strike back with his own vitrol like a cornered cobra.

     “Yet you agree with me that it was a woman who stabbed this man in the back,” he muttered. “I find your statement rather paradoxical.”

      Molly bit her lip against the argument she wanted to unleash on him. Instead, she took a deep breath and faced Dr. Watson.

     “Erm, Doctor, excuse me. Might I ask you to step aside a moment?”

     Dr. Watson smiled and nodded eagerly. He hauled himself to his feet and then he and Inspector Lestrade vacated the spot next to the corpse and moved to stand near his feet. Molly paused a moment as she gazed down at the poor soul with the poker protruding from his back. Then she gathered her skirts and kneeled before lying down next to the dead man. She had to press her back against the wall of the narrow hall so as not to touch any part of the body.

     “What the hell are you doing, Miss Hooper?” Mr. Holmes ground out.

     Molly tilted her chin back as she stretched out her legs and looked at him upside down. “Gaining perspective.”

     His lips compressed in a thin line. With a shrug, she returned her attention to her corpse. Her nose was inches from the metal poker with its intricately twisted metal handle. She sniffed and detected a faint trace of flowers. She raised her hand up and mimicked a stabbing action. Then, she leaned forward and studied the wound. Finally, she returned to a sitting position. When she lifted her head to peer up at her companions, a hand was already extended in her direction. Long, elegant fingers twitched at her eye level. She glanced past them to Mr. Holmes. His eyes were as dark as ink wells with only a sliver of the pale blue of his irises highlighting his unfathomable pupils.

     “I think that is quite enough, Miss Hooper,” his deep baritone admonished.

     Molly reached up to take his hand. Just before their fingers met, an arc of static electricity crackled between them. She swallowed a gasp, steeled her nerves and slid her hand up into his warm palm. She thought she felt his fingers quiver before he gripped her wrist firmly and tugged her to her feet. Her heart picked up its pace. He made her feel so small. His large hand enveloped half her arm and when she rose up to meet him, her neck strained in an effort to look up at him.

    “Thank-you,” She dipped her head.

     “You are ludicrous,” he muttered under his breath.

     “Wh-What?” she breathed.

     Again, he had that ability to make her forget the outside world. He seemed perturbed but there was something else . . . almost, admiration? She could not be certain.

     “I said, you are-”

      “Miss Hooper!” Dr. Watson cut in. “What did you conclude?”

     Molly snapped from her reverie and snatched her hand back. Her face flared with heat.

     “Erm, well,” she stammered as she glanced at Dr. Watson’s eager face. “I also think a woman is responsible for this death. Whomever culpable was short in stature, no taller than myself from the wound placement and its angle of entry. Also, the puncture is shallow so I might additionally conclude the murderer was not very strong. Since there are no children among the home’s inhabitants, the balance of probabilities favors a female as the culprit.”

       Inspector Lestrade whooshed a breath of air from where he leaned on a door frame with crossed arms. “Oy, that is a bit more methodical determination, is it not, Mr. Holmes?”

     “Hmph, elementary, I suppose,” the large man replied gruffly.

     “No, brilliant again!” Dr. Watson interjected as he bent over to look at the body once more. “Anything else?”

     Molly looked shyly at Mr. Holmes. Even though he appeared irritated, he leaned forward as if waiting for her next revelation. She bowed her head.

     “There is a kind of fine dust on the poker’s handle, much like talcum but with a distinct perfume. I recognize the smell as coming from a common face powder for women.”

      Mr. Holmes’ eyes bobbed up and down as he studied her face. Suddenly, she was not so sure she annoyed him at all. His expression was softer, more probative, as if he was attempting to memorize something. Finally, he returned his pipe to his lips and puffed on it again. He looked down a moment at the corpse.

      “Well, Lestrade,” his voice was low and even. “It seems we have learned all we need to from this dead man. I think he can be removed from this home now.”

     Lestrade blinked in surprise. “Alright, Mr. Holmes. I will send word after I see Miss Hooper home.”

     Mr. Holmes’ head jerked up. “No! That is . . . there is no need for you to do both. I will see Miss Hooper back to her residence. She is my examiner, after all. I mean, no, she is mine . . . blast, I am responsible for her being here! Hell, there must be something wrong with this tobacco or the air in here or even a gas leak even. Let us leave this place.”

     Dr. Watson nodded and skipped forwards before stopping at the foot of the stairs. He turned with a quizzical look on his face. “Wait, would not your pipe have ignited any gas?”

     Mr. Holmes growled and tugged at the cuffs of his great, dark brown overcoat. “Move your feet, Watson!”

     Dr. Watson quickly disappeared up the stairs followed by a goofily grinning Lestrade. Molly gathered her skirts and trailed after them as Mr. Holmes dogged her steps. They met the butler in the front foyer where Lestrade informed him that he would be sending for one of his deputies to collect the corpse.

      “I will go see if I can hail us a hack,” Mr. Holmes mumbled curtly to Molly. “Please, wait here. I will be right back.”

     Molly tilted her head in acknowledgement then watched in confusion as Dr. Watson hurried after the detective and they disappeared out into the chilly night air.

          *   *   *

     “Holmes!”

     Sherlock fumbled with the buttons of his coat as he strode quickly down the cobblestone sidewalk. He attempted to ignore John Watson but it proved futile.

     “Holmes!”

      “What?!”

     He whirled and dumped what was left of his pipe in the gutter then looked towards the sky and watched a long stream of his breath disperse into the night sky. Even late at night, the city buzzed with mischief. He could hear the distant clatter of carriage wheels and the drunken murmur of patrons at a nearby gentlemen’s club. Even these posh streets were never too far removed from the slithering underbelly of London. The beast thrived on vice. Vice! It was everywhere he looked, taking all shapes and forms. Steps approached and then stopped just to his left.

     “You seem out of sorts, my friend,” Watson observed.

     Sherlock peeked at him out of the corner of his eye. Dr. Watson was one of the few people able to gauge his moods. However, he was always loathe to admit any weakness.

     “I am quite well, Watson.”

     “Hmm.”

     Sherlock looked down at his friend and snorted. “You disagree?”

      “No,” he replied quickly, shaking his head as he stared straight ahead, “no, for I have no reference for your behavior. I have never seen you flustered.”

      “I am not flustered,” Sherlock returned.

      “Oh.”

      Dr. Watson peeked at him briefly then shrugged and kicked a pebble off the curb. He blinked several times with wide eyes as he gazed across the way. Sherlock’s temper spiked.

      “Do not ‘Oh’ me!”

      He spun and resumed his march towards the next street where the hacks would be circling and awaiting the club to close its doors. Dr. Watson caught up, practically running to match his brisk pace.

     “Fine, fine, but perhaps you would prefer me to escort Miss Hooper home.”

     Sherlock flipped up his collar. “I already declined Lestrade’s offer. Why would I do any differently for yours?”

     “Erm, yes, but I am married whereas he is not-”

     The detective stopped abruptly and halted Watson’s advance with his hand. He then poked his chest with his finger.

     “What is that supposed to mean?”

     Watson slapped his hand away. His nose scrunched in annoyance.

     “Holmes, it is quite obvious that the fair Miss Hooper has you discombobulated. I mean, I never would have believed it but I have never . . . ever . . . ever heard you speak of any woman the way you have spoken about her. I mean, you called her pretty and referred to her as decoration and . . . no, do not deny it,” he shook his finger at Sherlock as he opened his mouth to refute him, “no! Do not deny it because you do not want me to further review your slips of the tongue.”

     Sherlock could see the deep shadows of Dr. Watson’s resolve in his expression. He resented the concern he saw written there. He was Sherlock Holmes! No woman disconcerted him. His voice rose in anger as he responded to Watson’s speculation.

     “If it will alleviate your distress, then I will admit for your sake that I found myself confounded by being outwitted by a member of the weaker sex, but beyond that, you must not believe. I am not given to sentiment nor can a chit like Miss Hooper ever tempt me. She owes her wit to the teachings of a great doctor in Michael Stamford. She is useful but not a curiosity for me at all-”

     It was only as his words echoed between the buildings did Sherlock realize that the subject of their discussion stood but a few yards away clutching her hat in her hands. Her lips were parted. Her face was as pale as the moon. Even in the darkness, he could see that her eyes were wide with shock. Her emotion struck him across the expanse. Inspector Lestrade stopped just beside her with a dour look on his face.

     “The Butler asked us to leave,” he muttered. “Guess we outlived our usefulness.”

     Miss Hooper fumbled with her hat and then lifted her chin and walked briskly past him.

     “The hacks are this way, I presume?”

     For a moment, Sherlock was frozen as he watched her delicate frame become rigid and she stiffly walked in the direction of the next street. A feeling he had never felt previous blossomed in his chest. It was uncomfortable and choked the breath from him. He could not be certain, but he might guess it was remorse if he didn't already know he was incapable of such a feeble disposition.

     "Holmes?" Watson queried for the umpteenth instance that evening. "You look ill."

     He shook his head and started after Miss Hooper.

     "Indigestion, dear Watson."

     


	5. The Clash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No good can come of a late night carriage ride.

_“If it will alleviate your distress, then I will admit for your sake that I found myself confounded by being outwitted by a member of the weaker sex, but beyond that, you must not believe. I am not given to sentiment nor can a chit like Miss Hooper ever tempt me. She owes her wit to the teachings of a great doctor in Michael Stamford. She is useful but not a curiosity for me at all -”_

     Molly dropped into her seat in the hack with a huff. Mr. Holmes’ vitriolic diatribe still echoed between her ears. She crossed her arms so tightly over her chest that her hands began to tingle from lack of circulation. Her bitter tears burned like vinegar in her eyes but she refused to allow them to let. What a disappointment Mr. Holmes had been. He really was no different from the chauvinistic norm for all his demonstrated brilliance.

     _“What more could I do to prove myself worthy of his admiration?”_ she wondered.

     She shook her head and backtracked so quickly that her inner monologue almost stuttered.

     _“Respect! Definitely not admiration. I want his respect!”_

She grumbled a sigh and sat back. Why was her confounded hackney cab not moving yet, she grumbled silently? Then, she felt the side of it dip, the door opened and the ridiculously large detective himself climbed into the cabin and settled into the opposite seat. Her breath hitched as his slanted eyes glinted with intensity. She had to remind herself that she disliked him immensely in that moment as the pulse in her neck throbbed with blood.

     “Please f-find yourself alternate transportation, Mr. Holmes,” she directed with a shaky wave of her hand towards the door, “I am perfectly capable of seeing myself home.”

     She watched his elegant fingers fold together on his lap, then his thumbs tapped together and his neck stretched as he prepared to speak. His chin moved in a bit of an arc before he blinked slowly and his lips parted.

     “No.”

     She frowned at his deliberate enunciation of that simple dismissal. Then, her already frothing blood began to boil and she jumped up. However, she was unable to stand and instead found herself bent towards him unnervingly. She swallowed.

     “L-Let me relieve you of your obligation then, sir,” she declared. “I . . . I do not wish to continue an association with a man who considers me merely u-useful.”

      A groove marred his otherwise perfect brow. “You deem _‘useful’_ an offensive term, do you?”

     “I deem its connotation offensive!” she hissed.

     The hack jerked into motion unexpectedly. Molly attempted maintain balance but momentum propelled her forwards and with a shriek she crashed into her companion.

     “Unh!” Mr. Holmes grunted as her knee landed squarely between his legs. “Ffft!”

     His fingers clamped around her arms as he adjusted himself and huffed a series of pain-filled breaths. She found herself pressed against his chest. Her fingers tensed over the fine fabric of his coat. She bit her lip as she gazed at his contorted face illuminated intermittently by each gas street lamp the carriage passed.

     “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Holmes!” she rushed out. “Are you . . . injured?”

     “Hu-uh, a moment . . .”

     He continued to wheeze. Molly’s hands sprang into action despite hers and Mr. Holmes’ awkward entanglement and the jostling of the hackney cab as it bounced over the cobblestones.

     “Mr. Holmes?” she prodded as she attempted to ascertain where the source of his pain originated.

     She felt the muscles of his torso stiffen beneath her digits. His fingers tightened on her upper arms and his eyes flew open.

     “Dear Lord, Woman, cease your explorations immediately!” he panted.

     “B-But you seem to be in a tremendous amount of pain,” she babbled. “Perhaps it is serious like a broken rib or something of the ilk. I am studying to become a doctor-”

     “Miss Hooper,” he gave her a purposeful shake. “Let me be very clear, it is a transient soft-tissue injury as . . . as much to my dignity a-as anything else.”

     Molly’s forehead bunched in confusion but the meaning of his words dawned on her with crude clarity. Fire raged up the skin of her chest, her face and towards her scalp as she looked into his eyes.  She wanted to faint dead away from the embarrassment. She had kneed him in his manhood!

     “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered. “W-Will it take you very long to r-recover?”

      He shook his head as he set her gently next to him on the bench. He stretched out his legs and repositioned himself in his seat, reducing her occupancy of the bench to a small wedge in the corner. She crossed her legs and retracted them in order to avoid contact with his long limbs. She studied him anxiously wishing there was something she might do to reduce his distress.

     “Fortunately, the ache already subsides,” he raised a brow as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Ahem, you may want to avert your eyes a moment.”

     Heat flared in her cheeks again. The detective moved around in the seat next to her before heaving a sigh and relaxing again. She turned hesitantly back towards him. He held up his hand.

     “Do not . . . do not apologize again.”

     They rode on in silence for a few minutes. Mr. Holmes swiveled his head in the direction of the window and seemed to become lost in thought as the hack trundled through the streets. She clutched her hands together on her lap and stared straight ahead. Every imperfection in the road (of which there were many) bounced her towards him. Every so often she had to wriggle away. They would soon arrive to her door where they would most likely part forever. A sigh rattled her lips.

     “Mm,” her companion murmured as if agreement with her thoughts.

     They were an absurd pair really, she thought dejectedly. What a failed experiment they had undertaken.

     She pivoted her head to look at him. “Mr. Holmes, it is quite obvious we do not work well together-”

     He jerked his head to assess her. “Is it?”

     She huffed. “Oh, would you please! Listen, I want us to part on good terms and there is no reason we should not be able to do so.”

     His right eye flinched. “This sounds like a farewell speech. Is this because I referred to you as useful?”

     She groaned. “No, it is more than that, of course it is more than that. Your attitude, that is, it is of such a nature . . .”

     Mr. Holmes sat up, boxing her even further into the corner of the cab. The curls on the top of his head were beginning to loosen from their styled confines. His lush lips tightened angrily.

     “My attitude! You cannot be serious. This is your excuse?”

     She glowered up at him. “Excuse?!”

     “Yes, an excuse! I thought you were of a hardier stock, Miss Hooper, but do go on. Run along home and . . . scrub some floors or other such rubbish,” he bolstered his words with a flourish of his hand. “Go try your hand at something easier and live down to everyone’s expectations. For, if you cannot suffer so debatable an offense as being called, ‘useful’ then you were never fortuitous enough to become a real examiner.”

     “Oh!” Molly exclaimed, her back went taut.

      She resented his logic even as she begrudgingly agreed with it. Still, she jabbed him with her finger in the shoulder. She positively steamed.

      “You,” she poked him again, “you are not a g-gentleman!”

       She was about to wind up and jab him once more for good measure but he caught her wrist and slammed it against the window on the side of the hack. The cold of the glass and the menace from his curled lip caused goosebumps to riddle her flesh. Her other hand rose to her defense but he ensnared that as well and pinned it against her hip. His chest lifted and fell with heavy breaths as he looked down then raised his head and leaned forwards over her. His eyes were as deep and dark as a coal hearth that had gone cold.

     “I have never claimed to be a gentleman,” his voice rumbled through her like a passing locomotive.

     There was something mesmerizing about the way his lips moved when he spoke. Molly’s lower abdomen churned with strange sensation.

     “P-Perhaps you have not given voice to the idea but you present yourself as such, sir. Is your appearance just propaganda, then?”

     “Without a doubt,” he huffed through his nostrils as his eyes grazed her face.

     He closed the distance and his nose brushed by hers. She held her breath as his mouth hovered so close she could feel the warmth of his flesh across the finite gap.

     “I cannot accept your resignation. I still have need of you, Molly Hooper,” he murmured nearly against her lips as he squeezed both her wrists.

     She gasped in a breath. Her stomach contracted in her belly. She did not understand what was happening to her body, it was as if she had been flooded with spirits which weakened her limbs yet heightened her senses. Her skin warmed everywhere, her heart beat so frenetically, she could feel her pulse in her face.

     “You n-need me?” she asked breathlessly, flexing her knuckles against the glass.

     His nose bumped hers and then seemed to nudge it upward. “Yes.”

      She could not help herself. Her mouth followed his but his lips remained maddeningly elusive. Her chin dropped as she panted for air. Once more, his nose flicked at hers to compel her lips to chase his. She whimpered. Her loins felt impossibly wound tight. Her body begged for some sort of release.

     The hack stopped then and the driver’s muffled voice called their stop from his outside perch. Molly nearly groaned aloud in frustration as Mr. Holmes gave his head a shake and snapped it back. His expression was rife with confusion as his eyes bobbed up and down. His nostrils flared. Then, his hold on both her wrists slackened and he sat back. He busied his fingers smoothing the lapels of his jacket.

     “This is my stop,” Molly whispered.

     He nodded. He looked outwardly cool and collected save for the heaving of his chest. Despite his protestations to the opposite, Mr. Holmes exited the carriage and escorted her to her door like a gentleman. Once there, he dipped his head curtly.

     “Goodnight, Miss Hooper.”

     Molly chewed her lip as he turned to depart. Her blood still thrummed through her veins at a heady pace. Her lips felt plump as if they needed to be plucked before the swelling would subside. Also, she ached. She ached everywhere and the very sod who had put her in this state strode away as if pursued by serpents. His long coat flapped in his wake.

     “Mr. Holmes-”

     He turned suddenly on the stone walk. Bathed in moonlight, his uniquely handsome profile almost stopped her heart.

     “Miss Hooper, rest assured, I will require your assistance again,” his eyes cracked to hers like a whip. “Will you acquiesce to my demands?”

     She swallowed. His voice had an undercurrent to it that caused her to flush again even as his challenge raised her hackles. She did not know whether to curse at him or insist he return and bestow the kiss he had taunted her with in the hack.

     He raised a brow. “Miss Hooper?”

     She wrinkled her nose as she drank in the sight of him, slightly ruffled and somewhat stiff in gait as if he too had not yet shaken off their encounter. Her conscience and voice of reason screamed dissent but its cries were soon muffled. It was pounced upon by a gluttonous inner demon pleading for whatever scraps its current obsession might impart.

      Molly let out a stream of air. She was too easily swayed by her demon's preferences.

     “I will endeavor to become . . . indispensable to you, Mr. Holmes.”


	6. The Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blazing a path can be fraught with difficulties.

     _Whack!_

      Molly was startled awake. She raised her head so swiftly she felt a crick in her neck. She grunted and rubbed her nape. A newspaper unfurled on her desk only a few inches from her face. She looked up to see the sardonic smile of her classmate Janine Donnelly. The attractive, dark-haired Janine was flanked by her shorter, stouter lieutenant named Mary Clery, and oddly enough, the posh Miss Emilia Blakeslee. Molly didn’t dislike either Janine or Mary. However, their tendency to dominate class discussions irritated her at times. As for Emilia, Molly could never quite make up her mind about the attractive debutante. Emilia’s motivation to obtain a medical license seemed wholly to shock the aristocratic part of society to which she belonged (something Molly could respect) but she otherwise kept to herself. However, this day, her pert nose was wrinkled in distaste.

     “Oh, well, look who decided to join us! The consultant examiner herself, Molly Hooper!” Janine exclaimed in an exaggerated Irish accent.

     Molly curled her fingers into her palms on her lap as she blinked away the fog in her brain. Her lips pulled tight. Her brows bunched together in supreme annoyance and confusion. She prided herself on being level-headed and even-tempered in most situations, but those traits were overwhelmingly overruled when she was abruptly roused from a sleeping state. She was so annoyed in that moment that she thought a jet of fire might erupt from the top of her head. She picked up the paper and flung it at Janine.

     “Sod off,” she muttered.

     The other girls in the immediate vicinity gasped. In the back of her mind, Molly knew she probably over-reacted but she was too exhausted to check herself. The previous evening, she had stayed up late performing a full examination of a man who had been publically executed (apparently by a ghost). After her examination, she had waited for Mr. Sherlock Holmes to make an appearance (as he had been the one to request the work) until well past one am. When he hadn’t shown, she’d resorted to leaving him detailed notes. That meant she hadn’t gotten home to bed until 2 am.

     Janine scooped the paper from the floor and waived it around. “Ah, well, our Morbid Miss Molly does not need to read about her own exploits, I guess.”

     Molly frowned at the hated nickname and sat up stiffly. “What are you on about?”

     Janine hiked a brow and shook out the paper dramatically. “Why, I was just reading all about the, ahem, _services_ you have been performing for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are now his preferred medical examiner according to the infamous Dr. John Watson’s column, are you not?”

     “Wh-What?” Molly lurched out of her seat.

     She reached for the paper but Janine laughed and yanked it away and out of her grasp. She was a good head taller than Molly.

      “Whoop! What un-lady like behavior, but not really a surprise if this story is to be believed.”

      Molly swallowed and held out her hand. “Please let me see that.”

     “Ah, no, I think the whole class should hear this piece written by Dr. Watson,” Janine proclaimed, then cleared her throat as she read the paper. "He has such a way with words. Ahem, he writes, _‘A reader accused me in a letter recently of fabricating the existence of the hero of my stories, the great Sherlock Holmes. My first inclination was a hearty chuckle but then I came to realize that I have made a grievous error in my depiction of him. I have painted him as a man with no frailties. Thus I forgive you, dear readers, if you find his deductive feats too fantastical to be true. This you can lay entirely at my feet as I have perpetuated the myth that he is not reliant on anyone for his determinations. Holmes, for all his intimidating acumen, is acutely aware of his own limitations and predilections. I have neglected to inform you that in fact, he readily seeks out those who might supplement his genius. He will never admit it, of course, but he is quite dependent on others such as myself, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland yard and most recently, his preferred medical examiner, Miss Molly Hooper._

 _“Yes, you have read correctly. Holmes resources the intellect of a student at the London School of Medicine for Women. So, you see, my good readers, even the seemingly irreproachable detective has his weaknesses. Perhaps this bit of information will help cast him in a more human light and convince you that such a man does exist. Certainly, I have found myself viewing him differently lately_.’”

     Warmth flushed through Molly’s skin as Janine flicked the paper down to study her reaction.

     “It goes on from there describing your great wit and so on. You have made quite the impression on Dr. Watson. Of course, what we really want to know is what kind of impression you have made on Mr. Holmes.”

     Molly squirmed in her chair. “I am sure I do not know of what you speak.”

     “Do you not?”

     A combination of rage and embarrassment caused Molly’s face to burn at higher temperature. She knew exactly what Janine insinuated. She glanced around at the other women in her class. They all listened with rapt disapproval. There was not a single supportive face amongst them. Their resentment felt like a tidal wave of ill will. Emilia Blakeslee shot her a particularly dark look. Molly was more than a little shocked by their reaction.

     “Molly Hooper!”

     She turned her gaze to see the dean of their school and sometimes instructor, Dr. Elizabeth Anderson, framed by the heavy wood molding around the classroom’s entrance. The woman was a pioneer and quite intimidating with her stern expression. Molly gulped and stood up, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirts nervously.

     “Yes, Dr. Anderson?”

      “Please come with me,” she directed in clipped tones.

     Molly rose quickly, brushed by the grinning Janine and followed the dean into the wide outer corridor. The heels of her sturdy boots rapped against the floor and echoed off the walls as she deliberately planted each step. All in all, Dr. Anderson was an imposing woman. She was taller than Molly with her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her shoulders were broad and squared. It was no wonder she had become the first female physician in England. Molly could not imagine anyone, male or female, having success setting their will against hers.

     “Sit down, please, Miss Hooper,” the dean instructed upon entry into her office.

     Molly slunk into a simple, sturdy wooden chair across from the dean’s solid oak desk. She glanced around anxiously. Dr. Anderson’s office was a treasure trove of curiosities. There were stacks of papers and medical tomes on every surface. A display case to her left held jars of preserved pieces of anatomy and all manner of artifacts that begged for closer inspection including a hideously deformed skull with a bubbling bone growth twisting half the bone structure of the face. Behind the dean, her framed medical diplomas and certifications lined the wall between the room’s two slender, stained glass windows. Molly felt as if she had stepped into a shrine of sorts, a kind of palace of wisdom, or a mind palace if one were so fanciful. She stifled a nervous giggle. What an odd bit of musing that had been!

     Dr. Anderson settled herself into her high-backed upholstered chair and pushed the spectacles that had been dangling from a light chain around her neck up onto her nose. Molly chewed her lip as the older woman picked up what looked like another copy of the newspaper Janine had been brandishing and lifted her chin to read it through her glasses.

     “Miss Hooper, you can probably surmise why I wanted to speak with you.”

     Molly nodded slowly. “I-I only just found about this article this instant-”

     Dr. Anderson tilted her chin down to look at Molly over her glasses with raised brows. “So, it is not a mistake or an embellishment? You _are_ acting as a medical examiner?”

     Molly shook her head adamantly. “N-No! Not at all! My Uncle and his staff are still the authorities in these matters. I just offer my opinion and not on very many things, mind you. My expertise, erm, such as it is, is offered as part of an exclusive arrangement with Mr. Holmes.”

     The dean pursed her lips. “Hmm.”

     Molly did not know what her mentor thought. She clutched her hands together on her lap as she anticipated a response.

     “A-Am I in trouble, Dr. Anderson?”

     The dean sighed and removed her glasses. Then, she sat back and clasped her fingers together over her generous bosom.

     “I have received several complaints regarding this article, Miss Hooper. As you know, people are not very supportive of this school and its students. There is a relentless campaign to sully our reputation and drive students away. We are constantly accused of corrupting the minds of young women and leading them into morally reprehensible behavior. For some, this story is proof.”

     Molly sucked in a breath. She did not like where the conversation was heading.

     “B-But I was just gaining experience for the profession I seek to enter.”

     Dr. Anderson raised a hand. “Miss Hooper, while your penchant for this work is laudable, there is an unseemliness about the manner in which you are conducting yourself. Now, I know you are a bright girl, if not the brightest in my school, and I personally have no qualms about your morals, but you must appreciate that others are not so open minded. If this article is to be believed, you have attended at least one crime scene unchaperoned with a well-known single gentleman of the upper class. You have made yourself notorious, Miss Hooper, and our school already suffers from it by association.”

     Molly’s eyes stung. While she knew that one day her activities with Mr. Holmes might be brought to light, she thought that day would be well into the future after she had obtained her degree. She did not expect it to come so soon.

     “I am dreadfully s-sorry, Dr. Anderson,” she choked back a cry. “It never occurred to me that I might embarrass the school. I thought I risked my reputation alone. Wh-What can I do to make amends?”

     Dr. Anderson sighed and rubbed her temple. “We are past the point of amends, you understand? I cannot undo this and you certainly cannot. Oh, Molly, my girl, you have put me in an impossible situation. I cannot condone your behavior as much as it would behoove me not to do so. I have to make an example of you.”

     Molly’s heart pounded. Her world felt as if it were shifting beneath her feet. She knew what was coming and every subsequent breath grew harder and harder to draw.

     “P-Please, Doctor, I am so very sorry. I will cease my activities at once. I swear that I will never attend another crime scene with Mr. Holmes . . .”

     Tears escaped her lids and spilled down her cheeks. Dr. Anderson sniffed and looked away.

     “Oh, my dear child, I am in anguish for you, truly, but I have been fighting this fight from before you were born and the sad reality is that we women can never just seize what we want,” her eyes glossed, she held up a fist and shook it. “We must tease and cajole each woven strand of victory from those holding the ropes that bind us. There is no avenging blade to cut our bonds as much as I wish it were so.”

     Finally, her gaze returned to Molly. “I am sorry to inform you that I have to suspend you for this behavior.”

     Her pronouncement hit Molly like a falling branch. She started sobbing and ended up on her knees on the floor in front of her mentor’s desk with her hands held up as if in prayer.

     “Our final exams are only weeks away! P-Please, do not do this,” Molly begged. “This career means everything to me. Please, Dr. Anderson. Without this, I . . . I cannot imagine how I go on living . . .”

     Dr. Anderson rose from her desk and rounded it to stand next to her. When Molly looked up, the matriarch’s eyes glistened.

     “Now see here, Molly Hooper,” she admonished as she dragged Molly to her feet and shook her by her shoulders. “This is a suspension not an outright expulsion and certainly not the only avenue for you. It guts me to do this but I have to make a show if it, you understand? This school is dependent on benefactors who do not want their daughters’ names dragged into the mire. I am sure you can imagine of whom I speak.”

     Emilia immediately popped into Molly’s mind. “The Blakeslees?”

     Dr. Anderson expelled a long breath. “I will let you make your own conclusions.”

     “I-Is this it, then?” Molly cried.

     The dean nodded. “Yes, and I think it is best if you gather your things and leave immediately so we can avoid any further disruption. Again, I am sorry.”

     What followed was a numb drift as Molly shuffled through the task of gathering her books. Fortunately, her class had moved on to their labs and she didn’t have to deal with jeering at the lowest moment of her life. She managed to stave off more waterworks until she was alone in the hackney cab with the busy streets passing by her window. Then she saw a happy couple strolling down the sidewalk and divulged into another fit of tears. Her risk had not turned into any kind of reward. She was no longer on the path to becoming a doctor and her reputation was in shreds. She had neither career nor hope of a more modest existence as a wife and mother. She laid her head against the cold glass and let the tears flow freely.

     To add insult to injury, when she arrived home laden with her texts and stepped into the parlor entry, she observed none other than Sherlock Holmes and John Watson imbibing in drinks with her Uncle Mike. When Mr. Holmes noticed her he sat forward, studied her intently and a deep furrow set into his brow. She averted her eyes as her lip quivered. Damn him for looking concerned!

     “Molly!” Her uncle exclaimed from his deep leather chair. “You are home early. Did class let out prematurely today?”

     She briefly considered concealing her suspension but her face had other plans and twisted into what felt like a mask of misery. Both Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson stood suddenly and dipped their heads in anxious greeting.

     “Molly?” Her uncle probed.

     She lifted her chin but her lip trembled again. She did not want to look into Mr. Holmes’ eyes even though being the subject of their focus felt like radiant heat on her flesh. His will was incredibly hard to disobey.

    “I-I have been suspended indefinitely, Uncle,” her gaze flitted to Dr. Watson. “Apparently, the revelation of my extra-curricular activities has brought disrepute to the school and I am no longer welcome to attend classes.”

     Dr. Watson’s face fell and his mouth hung open. He closed it again into a grim line and shook his head ruefully at Mr. Holmes.

     “I told you it was a bad idea,” he muttered.

     Molly’s heart skidded to a stop in her chest and cold washed over her flesh. She began to pant as she tried to control her emotions.

     “You . . . you deliberately sought to expose me?”

     As hard as she tried to subdue the avalanche, the stones of her composure began to crumble. She tried to distract herself by assessing Mr. Holmes’ ridiculously spot-on attire but the perfection of his tailored brown pin-striped suit with its complimentary chocolate cravat served only to rattle her foundations further. At last, it was the cinching of his brows and the digging in of his metaphorical heels in the way he clenched his jaw that set her off. How dare he brandish her name so cavalierly!

     Molly threw her books to the floor save for her smallest notebook which she stared down at briefly before she let out a cry and whipped it in the direction of the handsome detective. It landed short as he stepped backwards.

     “Molly Hooper!” Her uncle exclaimed. “Control yourself!”

     She was too incensed though and as if by providence, Gomery appeared beside her with a tray of cakes and biscuits. She reached over and grabbed a hunk of cake and in doing so startled poor Mr. Gomery. She then flung it at Mr. Holmes who side-stepped her projectile easily. With a growl, she grabbed another and another and hurled them at him, along with a few choice insults, until a wedge of cake laden with a thick coating of buttercream hit him square in the waistcoat. By the time she ran out of pastries, her chest was heaving. She surveyed the disastrous scene. Her uncle and Dr. Watson looked mortified standing among the remnants of their ruined refreshments. Mr. Holmes just lifted his nose and pulled a kerchief from his pocket. He shook the slinky fabric out casually and began to wipe at his soiled suit.

     “Feel better?” his deep voice intoned as his nearly translucent green eyes leveled again.

      She could not read his expression at all. He was a complete blank. She would have preferred anything else in that moment. His reticent emotion finally forced her to look inward. She felt wretched.

     “N-No,” she whispered.

     Molly inhaled a shuddering breath, then her chest was seized with a spasm. He didn’t care. Whatever his reasons for inciting Dr. Watson to include her in his article, he did not seem to care that she was hurt. A sob bubbled up in her throat. Then she fled.

          *   *   *

     “Well, that was rather badly done, Holmes,” Watson sighed as he stooped to assist the geriatric butler cleaning up the ravaged desserts.

     Sherlock glowered down at his friend. “Oh, do shut up, Watson. No one asked your opinion!”

     Dr. Stamford clicked his tongue to Sherlock’s right. “I apologize, Mr. Holmes, there is no excuse for her behavior.”

     Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on.

     “I disagree, Doctor, I think she has every excuse,” he murmured as he plunked into his seat.

     He drew in a breath. Another pang knifed through his skull. He closed his eyes a moment to scrub his mind of the visage of Miss Hooper’s despaired expression but the impression persisted. He had not wanted to harm his examiner's reputation when he had urged Watson to include her in his story. Rather, he sought to garner her some commendation for her work and hoped she might be flattered enough to forgive him for his transgressions. Also, and selfishly perhaps, there had been something satisfying in immortalizing their connection in print. Though exactly why, he could not say. He had not anticipated that she would be turfed from her school. Pain lanced his psyche once more. He hissed. He could not see a way to immediately correct the situation. The way forward was a mystery.

     “Holmes,” Watson interrupted his reverie, “does this mean she is not coming with us to the morgue?”

     Sherlock’s head twitched. He had forgotten about their original quest. He glanced up at Dr. Stamford.

     “Do not look at me, my boy,” the stout doctor chuckled as he plopped into his seat. “I am not the one you must placate.”

     Dr. Stamford reached over to his decanter of brandy on a silver tray and splashed a bit more into his tumbler. He wagged the bottle at Sherlock, who passed with a flick of his fingers.

     “No thank you, we are leaving shortly.”

     Stamford repeated the gesticulation for Watson with a broad smile and a wink.

     “Yeah, sure, why not?” Watson said with a shrug as he helped Gomery up from the floor. “I think I have time for one more.”

      He took the crystal decanter from Dr. Stamford, tipped a few ounces into his glass and sat back into the well-worn settee. Sherlock glared at him.

     “I just said we are leaving soon.”

     Watson nodded as he knocked back a slug of the sparkling brown spirit. “Yes, I heard. Not soon enough to finish this drink, I would wager. Actually, probably not before a second serving, if I really think about it. In fact, I might be right sauced before you convince Miss Hooper to answer her door.”

      Stamford hooted a laugh. His cheeks were already well on their way to becoming the same shade of crimson as his waistcoat. Sherlock glanced warily at the household’s patriarch.

     “S-Surely you would not approve of my setting foot outside your niece’s bedroom door, Dr. Stamford," he swallowed. "It would not be proper.”

      Stamford smirked and tipped his glass at him. “To be sure, Mr. Holmes, to be sure  . . . but as you said yourself – you do not have any designs on my pretty niece and I believed you when you said it, I surely did. Besides, I have a keen ear. Very little escapes me.”

     John Watson snickered and snorted a laugh. He then hid behind his glass but Sherlock could see his mustache dancing in amusement. With a huff, the detective launched himself to his feet. His face felt inexplicably warm.

     “I will return before you swill the last of that rotgut, Watson," he grumbled.

     Stamford's amused voice followed him from the parlor while Watson stifled another chuckle. "Take a right at the top of the stairs, Mr. Holmes, third door in. Oh, and best of luck."

     

     


	7. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all quite satisfied by the end of this chapter . . .

     John knocked back another mouthful of brandy which warmed his throat as it went down. He looked over at his companion who seemed to have gone quiet. Dr. Stamford appeared lost in thought, his tumbler hovered just shy of his lips. John coughed.

     “Are . . . are you sure you do not mind Holmes going upstairs to speak with your niece?”

     Dr. Stamford shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. “What? Oh, yes, yes, of course, Dr. Watson. I have known Mr. Holmes a very long time, if you recall.”

      John set his drink down and shifted forward on the settee. He glanced around at the modest parlor with its faded leaf-patterned wall paper and well-worn furniture. It seemed odd that they had not visited Stamford’s home before. John scratched behind his ear.

      “Sorry, Doctor, forgive me, I am still a bit confused as to why you are not more concerned about your niece’s virtue . . .”

     Dr. Stamford looked sideways at him with a sly grin. “Oh, trust me Dr. Watson, when the time comes, I will be.”

     John tilted his head sideways and frowned. He was still somewhat perplexed. Dr. Stamford twitched his brows.

     “Your Mr. Holmes is an honorable man, is he not?”

     John nodded slowly. “Erm, yes, he is the most honorable man I know despite his oft-times caustic manner. In fact, Holmes has the truest and most stalwart moral compass of any man I know . . . Oh! Good God, you hope to encourage an attachment between them!”

     Stamford chuckled as he resumed sipping his brandy. “My dear boy, I think we both know that encouragement is unnecessary.”

     John rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had avoided thinking about Holmes’ partiality for the winsome Miss Hooper but there was no use denying what had become painfully apparent. Sherlock Holmes was abnormally fond of his examiner. John sighed and winced at the implications.  

     “Dr. Stamford, I cannot deny that Holmes might have developed feelings for Miss Hooper and . . .  that h-he is the best and bravest of men,” John inhaled deeply, “but I would be remiss in my duties as your friend if I did not dissuade you from promoting a closer relationship between them. Holmes . . . Holmes would not make your niece a good husband.”

     John gritted his teeth. Once said, the words bounced back to him like a slap. Their phantom echo did not sound right between his ears even though he could easily imagine any wife of Holmes being neglected. Yet, as his closest friend, John himself had never felt that way. He rubbed the tight wrinkle of a frown between his eyes.

     “Lad,” Stamford murmured, his voice dropped an octave, “Molly does not need a husband and certainly not one deemed ‘good’ by society’s standards. Everything special about my niece, everything that illuminates her from within, would be quashed by a typical husband’s demands.”

     The weary gentleman turned liquid eyes towards John. His emotion was as palpable as the brandy.

     “Now I have fielded all manner of criticism for the way in which I have raised my niece since her parents died. I have been accused of being irresponsibly indulgent but you must understand, my boy, that I would s-sooner . . . c-cut off a limb than deny that precious girl anything.”

      John was speechless. He kept nodding until he palmed his drink again and took another swig.

      “Mm, ahem,” he hacked out the lump in his throat, “and you think Holmes of all people could make her happy?”

      Stamford stared unblinkingly at the dying coals in the parlor hearth.

      “Sherlock Holmes is the smartest man I know. If he cannot deduce Molly’s worth and what she needs, then there is no man in existence who can do so.”

          *   *   *

     _Knock, knock, knock._

     Molly heard the light rapping of knuckles from where she laid like a fallen cake on her creaky four post bed. She folded her arm over her tummy. It had been dangling off the side and her fingers were numb from hovering so long above the floorboards. Her gaze followed a bright white crack in her navy blue plaster ceiling back towards the door and down to the floor where the shadow of feet waited. She sighed. Light from the hall illuminated the shiny patina of the path where generations had tread to and from that entry, a testament of their uncomplicated lives. She huffed and looked back up at the once white decorative plaster medallion in the ceiling above her bed. It looked dirty and bits of it had broken away in the century since it had been molded.

      Tapping sounded from the door again.

      “I am sorry, Gomery,” she called out wanly, “I am sorry about the mess I made. I will make it up to you but for now, I would like to be left alone.”

      Molly was not yet done feeling wretched. She imagined herself a spring bud trying to unfurl underneath a sodden mass of last years’ leaves. The past surrounded, oppressed, and suffocated her even. The home in which she lived seemed determined to remind her of the hopelessness of her future.

     “It is not your manservant Gomery,” a muffled voice spoke from behind the door.

     She stiffened, sat up and gave her head a shake. She thought she must be imagining that deep familiar timber. She hopped from her bed, swished her skirts back and padded towards the door tentatively.

     “E-Excuse me?” She queried.

     “I am not Gomery,” came the reply.

      Molly pressed her hands to the smooth wood separating her from Mr. Holmes. Her heart raced. She was perplexed as she hastily dried her sweating palms on her skirts and then cracked the door. Then she felt the full force of his nearly crystalline bluish-green eyes as they flicked sideways. He was such a fearsome creature with his severe hair style and angular features. The only thing that softened his look were his sensuous, full lips. She blinked angrily at them as if to chastise their unnatural perfection.

     “Wh-What are you doing up here?” She stammered in a kind of squeak, then took a breath. “If my uncle learns that you visited me at my room-”

     Mr. Holmes scoffed as he rolled his eyes and dipped his head towards the narrow opening. “I think we can dispense with the idea that your uncle is at all concerned about your virtue, Miss Hooper. Besides, you and I need to converse.”

     Molly scrunched her nose and chewed her lip briefly. “Do you ever speak politely, sir? I-I do not believe I have heard a gentle word from you yet.”

     His eyes constricted as he studied her for a few seconds. Then an internal musing affected a minor spasm in his lid. His lips poked out just before he spoke.

     “Deep wounds require extreme treatments, Miss Hooper. One must stitch or cauterize them to stop the bleeding. Neither solutions are gentle.”

      Her lips pressed tight together against her teeth. One side of her nose twitched up. She didn’t know whether to admire his use of medical metaphor or be incensed by the cheek of it. His eyes travelled up and down her face, then his expression relaxed. Her breath faltered as he lowered his lids. He was infuriatingly attractive when his eyes were hooded.

      Molly inhaled sharply. “Well, I do not know what you expect me to do-”

      He put his hand up to lean on the interior of the door frame, his fingers curled into her room around the molding. Then his tongue ran over his teeth.

     “Open the door.”

     Her hand flew to her chest. Her pulse fluttered in her throat.

     “Mr. Holmes!”

      “Miss Hooper!” He mocked her in return then scoffed when she just stood there. “Let me in. We will leave the door ajar. Come, let us not pretend either of us gives a damn about propriety.”

       Propriety! Propriety was the least of her concerns. Truth be told, she did not trust herself around the alluring detective, especially in that instant when she felt so adrift. It was only days previous that she would have let him obliterate her innocence in the confines of a hackney cab if he had wished. However, despite her misgivings, she stepped back from the door. It swung open with a groan which somehow sounded louder than she had ever heard it before. She glanced around ruefully at her tired furnishings as the impeccably dressed detective with garb the very definition of modernity and affluence, stepped into her ancient bedroom.

       She glanced down at her own faded lower class uniform of taupe, a drab colour selected for its modesty both in price and appearance. It lacked any kind of feminine frippery. There was nary a superfluous button, ruche or ruffle to be found. Normally, she cared little for how she looked but she could not help feeling wholly inadequate standing just a few feet from a man who so obviously took great pains with his attire.

     Molly fingered a loose thread at her cuff. She could not raise her eyes to look at him.

     “Erm, wh-what would you like to discuss, sir?”

     She heard him huff. “To start, I would like you to cease addressing me as ‘sir’. You are not my servant.”

     She nodded as she tugged at the thread and her seam popped open. Confounded garment!

     “Sorry, Mr. Holmes.”

     “Just Holmes.”

      She supposed she was using it as a distraction but the thread stubbornly refused to break. Her seam opened up halfway to her elbow as she pulled. She cursed under her breath and heat crept into her cheeks. Next thing she knew, Mr. Holmes was upon her and had hold of her arm. She looked wildly up at him as his head lowered and he muttered something about her not listening. He then wrapped the thread around his finger, gave it a yank and popped it from her sleeve. Instead of releasing his grasp, his hand closed gently over the bare flesh of her exposed arm.

     “Address me as Holmes,” he murmured as his head raised again.

     She was caught in the gravity of his gaze. “Oh, um, okay, and h-how would you address me?”

     “Hooper.”

     Molly was acutely aware of his incredibly warm hand on her arm as if that point were the center of her being. His fingers twitched and alternately pressed into her flesh. Every movement turned her limbs to jelly, a flush coursed through her lower belly and downwards between her legs.

     “H-Holmes, what is so imperative that you need compromise my sanctuary?”

      His pupils magnified. Why she did not pull her arm away and step back, she could not say. Her mind returned to their late night carriage ride and the tease of his aloof lips.

     “I require your assistance at the morgue.”

     His words doused the fire raging within her and suddenly the reality of what had happened flooded back to her. Her lip quivered.

     “H-How could you ask this of me today?” She scrunched her nose and grimaced. “I am no longer an aspiring doctor. I-I am nothing . . . nothing.”

      His eyes narrowed into angry slants. His fingers flexed again on her arm and he rubbed his thumb over her pulse.

      “Speak such nonsense again and I will not be held responsible for my actions,” he said gruffly. “I assure you that your situation is a temporary setback which I will correct in short order.”

      “You?” She breathed. “What can you do?”

      Her heart lurched and then beat swiftly like the clacking of wheels over cobblestones. She desperately wanted what he said to be true but she could not envision any way he could remedy her situation. His head tilted as he scanned her face. His lips practiced his words before he spoke.

      “I am not a man without influence, Hooper,” he intoned in his deepest voice. “I need but bend the right people to my will and what is done will be undone. Do you doubt my skills in manipulation?

      Her nostrils flared. “I cannot say. Do you manipulate me?”

      Holmes shook his head once slowly. “No, I have no need. You want to assist me.”

      She sucked in a breath. “Y-You are a smug beast! Perhaps I do not feel like helping you right now.”

      He smirked. “Then I will inform you that you are obliged to assist me for ruining my favorite silk waistcoat. Now, unless you have a spare guinea in which to pay for it, you are going to have to reimburse me with your time.”

      Molly knew by the temperature of her face, her skin must be very red. She was both angry and mortified as she was reminded of her earlier outburst. She pulled away at last and stumbled backwards, her breaths harsh and heavy. His left brow lifted.

      “Of course, it might be easier for you to just clean my clothing.”

      “This from the man who claims he does not manipulate me!” She spat.

       His lips rattled in a sigh. “To manipulate is to deceive which I have not done. No, what I have given you is a distinct option between the menial and the meaningful. It is your choice, Hooper. Are you coming or not?”

          *    *    *

      Molly shook her skirt off her boot as she prepared to step up onto a new piece of equipment at the morgue- a wooden bench with the legs sawn in half. It was quite sturdy and a great deal safer than the buckets she had been using as step stools to examine bodies. It was a small thing but it made her feel welcome in the morgue even though Phillip Anderson, her uncle’s bumbling assistant, kept eyeballing her from the other side of the slab as if she were a specimen under his magnifying glass. Dr. Watson stood next to him with an anxious expression. She looked away from them quickly, preferring to analyze the body of a bride who appeared to have taken her own life. Somehow, the dead woman was less unnerving than her jittery audience. Holmes appeared at her side and offered his hand to help her step up.

     “Is this not a joke, then? Are we seriously letting a woman examine this corpse?” Anderson asked with a sneer.

     Holmes extended his arm and then held his hand up as if to silence the man. “Yes, Anderson, I required an examiner with less delicate sensibilities and someone infinitely more rational than yourself.”

     “Pfft!” Anderson sputtered and turned to Dr. Watson. “Can you believe this?”

      Dr. Watson blinked at him with large eyes. “Oh, um, yes, sure.”

      Holmes frowned at his friend. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

      Dr. Watson glanced between them all. He kept crossing and uncrossing his arms. Finally, he took off his bowler hat and stepped closer to the examining table with his head down.

      “Holmes, this woman has been seen around town and you have yet to discover how-”

      Holmes’ head lolled back before dropping forwards with his mouth open in disbelief. “You do not seriously believe she has risen several times in the last few days to flit around murdering people, do you? You cannot be that illogical!”

      Anderson made a sound and interjected. “Oh, oh, see, you have not been able explain her resurrection either, Mr. Holmes, and she has, I will attest to it. Why, just this morning, she was nowhere to be found and then she had bizarrely returned to this very table after my lunch break.”

       “That is easy to explain, in actual fact,” Holmes bit out. “You probably forgot what slab she was on.”

       Molly covered her mouth so as not to laugh. Holmes glanced sideways at her with a faint smile, altogether a little too pleased with himself.

       “Several credible witnesses have come forward claiming to have seen this woman in the street, Holmes,” Dr. Watson added.

      “Witnesses! Witnesses are not evidence, Watson,” Holmes chided. “Hooper, help me please. How long has this woman been dead?”

      Molly leaned forward over the woman garbed in a wedding dress. There was no question that she had been dead for nearly a week.

      “My opinion is that she has been dead for about six days,” she said as she poked the distended abdomen with a gloved finger. “Furthermore, she has not been up and about.”

      “She was absent from this very table this morning,” Anderson replied emphatically. “Now, you might not believe in the afterlife, Miss Hooper, but you cannot purport to know everything about death. It is a strange and mystical condition . . .”

       Her eyes fluttered sideways in disbelief. Holmes’ chest seemed to expand in exasperation.

       “Well,” Molly attempted diplomacy as she removed her gloves and tossed them next to the body, “do you believe in physics, Mr. Anderson? Our bride’s internals have already begun to putrefy. If she had been mobile in this morgue this morning she most certainty would have left a rather foul trail of liquids in her wake.”

      Holmes snorted a laugh whilst Dr. Watson sighed in relief. Unexpectedly, the gas lamps above their heads sputtered causing the light around them to flicker. They all just managed to look at each other with rounded eyes before a loud pop issued and the room plunged into darkness. Silence reigned a moment before an icy gust blasted through the room followed by what sounded like a low moan.

     “It is her! It is her!” Anderson shouted hysterically in the opaque blackness. “She is rising again to kill us all!”

     “Oh, Christ, Watson, get him out of here!” Holmes barked.

     “Come,” Watson’s voice preceded shuffling, “calm yourself, Phillip. Let us see if we can find the hospital steward and sort this out. Holmes, Miss Hooper, will you be alright?”

      “We will follow right behind you, Watson,” the detective responded.

      Molly listened to Anderson’s blubbering as they made their way from the morgue. Unfortunately, without the gas lamps, there was no light whatsoever for one’s eyes to adjust. It was easy to rationalize that an open door or window somewhere had snuffed the lamps but that did not stop fear from stiffening her spine and making her heart pound. She turned slowly on her bench-step which tottered beneath her feet.

     “Holmes?” She whispered fretfully.

      A hand fumbled for hers and she gripped it tightly.

     “Do not be alarmed, Hooper,” he answered calmly. “We will find our way out together.”

     She stepped down to the cobblestones then held his hand with a near death grip as they navigated their way between the tables into the larger open void of the morgue. Her boots kept bopping into his heels. The wind chose that moment to howl through the expanse again. Molly squeaked and scrambled against the large, solid form of Holmes just as he turned around. She felt like such a ninny but the eerie moan of the wind and not knowing whether they were going to walk into a table and knock a body to the floor made her tremble. She spread her fingers out over his chest as his arms wrapped around her and enveloped her in warmth. Fingers curled into the hair at the nape of her neck

     “Sh, I have you,” Holmes murmured, his breath feathered her hair.

     His hold was like an instant salve. His chin brushed the top of her head, then she felt a hand slide along her jaw and a thumb rub over her cheek. She slanted her head up at him even though she could not see anything. She felt the energy around them shift from one of comfort to something else. Oh, God, it was madness but she wanted him to fulfill the physical promises he had alluded to the other night. 

     “I-I am s-sorry-” She sputtered, now knowing what to do.

      In the shadows darker than the darkest pitch, she heard a soft growl. Then her words were cut off by the suddenness of lips covering her own. At first, Molly was transfixed by the yielding feel of flesh and the slight dampness of their press. Actually, she was stunned until she realized that Sherlock Holmes was in fact, kissing her just as she had wished. Instinctually, she parted her lips so she could have more. She moved them shyly, hoping it was the correct way to encourage him. A deep groan emanated from Holmes’ chest and vibrated her whole body. She felt as if she were being devoured in the darkness as he fell forward and coaxed her lips further apart. With each ebb and flow, her stomach formed another knot. Waves of sensation swished through her insides and she felt the flexure of muscles between her thighs she hadn’t even known existed.

      She clung to the lapels of his suit as Holmes’ mouth drank from hers. Somehow, despite the passion of his ardor, she felt starved and wanted more. His arm tightened around her back until she did not know where her body began and his ended. When she thought the embrace couldn’t get any more rousing, a wet, hot tongue plunged into her mouth and swept over hers. Again, she was shocked into a kind of immobility until his fingers contracted on her back. She wanted to respond but insecurity made her doubt herself. Would he think her entirely immoral if she reacted with the vigor that her body demanded? His lips lefts hers temporarily.

     “Am I . . .  your first?” Holmes rasped against her lips.

     She swallowed. “Y-Yes.”

     He swore. “Hell and damnation! You have never experimented?”

     Molly did not quite understand the question. “W-Well, yes, b-but I do not know what my lab studies have to do with this . . .”

     Holmes groaned a laugh, his breaths pulsed against her face. “No, not that kind of experiment . . . has no man ever touched you intimately?”

     She swallowed and thanked her stars that the gloom concealed her face when it flashed hot. “I-I do not know what you mean.”

     His hand slid from her jaw down the length of her body to her skirts. She held on to him as she tried to anticipate what he was going to do next. She could barely hear her own thoughts over the cacophony of blood pounding in her ears. He bunched the fabric up at her hip until she felt a cool draft and next thing she knew, a very warm hand found the goose-pimpled flesh between her stockings and her drawers at the outside of her thigh. She gasped as the slightly calloused pads of his fingers stroked along her skin and rested with just their tips pressing into the side of her derriere.

     “O-Oh!” She cried softly. “Um, no, no one has ever touched me like that.”

     A scorching breath warmed her face. “Good.”

     His nose nudged hers up and once again, his lips staked their claim. His fingers slipped just under the curve of her behind and she reacted by bending herself against him like a metal post buckling under a strain. She was nearly frantic in her need for everything he was doing. His lips were buttery supple, insistent and decadently addictive in their raw debauchery and she responded with an enthusiasm that was anything but chaste. Every probe of his tongue caused her feminine core to heat and tingle as if it too wanted to experience a similar penetration. He kissed her until they were both panting in the blackness, their breaths a ragged underground symphony. Holmes rested his forehead on hers.

     “Dear God, Hooper,” he mumbled, “if you were not an innocent, I would rut you right here in this morgue.”

     Molly nearly choked on her surprise. Her face burned. She had never heard a man speak in that manner.

     “I s-see.”

     “Hooper-”

      Suddenly the slap of feet on the stone steps at the far end of the morgue echoed through the chamber.

       “Holmes?” Dr. Watson called.

      Molly felt like a spinning top as she was released so quickly she nearly fell over. Her skirts swished to the floor just as the soft glow of a lamp approached and illuminated their immediate vicinity. She glanced up shyly at Holmes standing a few feet away. His chest heaved as he stared back at her with eyes constricted in intense concentration. Dr. Watson lifted the lamp aloft. His face was full of question. His mustache twitched.

      “Is everything alright?”

      “Fine, Watson,” Holmes tugged at his waistcoat. “Your timing is perfect as usual.”

      “Yes, well, I had to get back and make sure nothing had arisen,” his eyes flicked between them and even in the dim light, Molly watched his face become splotchy with colour.

      Dr. Watson’s brow furrowed and he started shaking his head. He shot daggers at Holmes as he held out his arm for Molly.

      “Miss Hooper, allow me to escort you out," he grumbed. "I imagine you have received quite the fright.”

     

     

     


	8. The Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord, Sherlock's conclusions are only going to get him into trouble!

 

     Sherlock Holmes could not take his eyes off the slim form of his examiner as she climbed the stone steps from the morgue basement at St. Bartholomew’s. The warm light from the lamp Watson carried bathed her honey brown chignon as well as the few curls that had sprung loose beneath it and grazed her slender neck in a soft glow. Sherlock’s breathing sounded abnormally loud in his ears- almost angry in the way that it huffed from his lips. Well, he was a bit irritated. Molly Hooper’s fingers should be clutching his arm as they ascended the stairs, not John Watson’s.

     He felt his nostrils flare. He was vexed by the distraction she presented. There was nothing remarkable about her drab clothing, waif-like frame or the modest way in which she carried herself. In fact, one might describe her as mousy if she even caught one’s attention in the first place. Yet, there was much to be appreciated if a person’s eyes lingered such as the narrow vee of her delicate back and the inward curve of her waist. Then there were the fine, graceful fingers that laid like hovering hummingbirds on Watson’s sleeve. A breath lingered on Sherlock’s lips as her head turned to answer a question Watson posed. Her profile was a work of feminine perfection. She at all times appeared humble and affable with her pert nose, high cheekbones and determined chin.

      However, as pleasing as he found her outside appearance, it was but window dressing concealing the complexity of her soul. What really engrossed him was the sheer incongruity of the woman who existed within the vessel. She was at once both timid and fierce, fearful yet brave, shy but bold, and good who yearned to be bad. Still, he did not understand the insanity she cultivated within him. Remarkable people existed everywhere. Why did this one inspire such madness?

      Sherlock reached in his inside pocket and shook out his deerstalker. He stuffed it on his head and cricked his neck. Something had to be done about this situation. He needed to find a way to expunge these . . . _feelings._ His eyes rested upon a dainty mole on the back of Hooper’s neck. Almost as if she felt the caress of his gaze, her hand reached back and rubbed over that very spot. His abdomen flexed and tightened. He stifled a sigh as his thoughts clarified. Forget feelings, his most pressing distraction was lust. He felt enslaved by it as if his physical inclinations had cut a deep trough through his mind. All thoughts seemed hemmed in by their impossibly high walls . . . all thoughts led to Hooper.

      In no time, their group reached the top landing which opened out to a corridor on the ground floor where the gas lights were still lit. Phillip Anderson stood down the passage shaking and stroking his chin as he stared out a window. His eyes were so large Sherlock could see a glint from his whites. Then something seemed to catch his attention and he stumbled backwards.

     “Aaah!” He screamed as he hit the opposite wall. “Ga-ah, it is her! It is the bride!”

      “Wh-What?” He heard Hooper gasp.

     Sherlock’s pulse sped up. He side-stepped around Watson and his examiner and ran towards the window. Anderson was a ridiculous man but he was not a liar. Sherlock skidded to a stop just in time to see the ghost-like figure of a woman in a wedding dress retreating into the fog though the lead-glass window. His companions scurried to catch up to him.

     “Dear God,” Watson breathed. “It is not possible.”

     Sherlock glanced back at Watson and his small examiner with her mouth set in a firm line. Her eyes narrowed and rapidly scanned the figure. She shook her head, then looked up to Sherlock. Her breathing appeared affected but she was resolute when she spoke.

      “She is too tall,” Hooper said simply.

      Her words jolted him from his daze. He extended his hand towards his friend and waved it emphatically.

      “Watson, the lantern!” Sherlock demanded.

      The lamp rattled and its light flickered as Watson acquiesced. Sherlock snatched it from him by its metal ring handle and sprinted back towards the morgue steps.

       “Holmes!” Watson’s footsteps clamored after him.

       Sherlock continued down into the darkness. His breaths spurted from his mouth in sharp jabs. Adrenaline flushed through his system. He ran past the various slabs back towards where they had left the body of the bride. His lungs burned when he came to a stop and blinked several times at the empty table. A heavy white linen appeared to be thrown back in the same manner as if someone had just hopped from bed. An inexplicable icy jab of fear caused his shoulders to tense. His mind raced irrationally until he expunged a lungful of stale air. He stood there panting a moment and fought succumbing to the creeping, crawling sensation of insecurity along his flesh. He searched the immediate area and returned his gaze to the table. He was not mistaken, this was the table that had held the dead woman. The bench he had modified for Hooper stood alongside it but . . . it was as if a corpse had never rested there.

       “Christ! Oh, Christ! Was that her then?” Watson sputtered at his rear.

       Sherlock whirled and held up the lamp. “Of course not!”

       Even though his reply was emphatic, doubt coiled in his stomach like a serpent ready to strike. He cursed his frail human condition and its instinctual peculiarities.

       “B-B-But she is gone,” Watson rasped.

       Sherlock rubbed his free hand over his face. How much time had passed? Not enough for several scenarios that nudged their way into his consciousness. He groaned and hit his fist against his temple. The extinguished gas lamps concealed too much. They needed to relight the basement lights to reveal the method of their corpse’s extraction.

       “H-Holmes, how is it that she has disappeared? We were not absent this place more than a minute or two . . .”

       Sherlock’s eyes twitched back and forth so quickly, his vision swam. “Whatever it is we saw upstairs, it was not the woman who was on this table! You heard Hooper . . . Christ! . . .  Hooper! Where is she?”

      As if recoiling like a boomerang, Sherlock shot back towards the upper floor with Watson trailing behind. Again, the detective’s guts corkscrewed. He thought he might be sick. He was spared that humiliation, though. His small examiner stood at the far end of the corridor cajoling and rubbing the back of the frightened Anderson. Sherlock snatched his hat from his head and doubled over heaving. Relief nearly buckled his knees. Watson caught up, teetered over to the wall and slumped against it.

     “Bloody hell,” he gasped between breaths, “I was not meant to run like this.”

     Sherlock rose to his full height again and took another shuddering breath. He hadn’t put much stock in the sightings of the bride about town, dismissing them as the over-active imaginations of fools or possibly others seeking notoriety. However, it was apparent a dangerous game was afoot and their safety was in question. He needed to return Hooper to her residence. He smoothed his hair, tugged his hat onto his head and started in her direction. Unexpectedly, Inspector Gregory Lestrade rounded the corner near her and Anderson. Before Sherlock could take another step, Watson grabbed his sleeve.

      “Holmes, stop.”

     Sherlock tried to shake him off.

      “No, I mean it, Holmes. Stop.”

     Sherlock looked down at his friend. Watson had a determined set to his jaw. His brows jumped up but his eyes were slanted in disapproval. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled as he felt the pinch of a frown. He knew that Watson was about to utter the inconvenient truth.

      “Inspector Lestrade’s arrival is rather fortuitous, hmm?” Watson asked pointedly. “It is probably best if he escorts Miss Hooper home.”

       When Sherlock didn’t respond, Watson huffed. “You have a case to solve, Sherlock Holmes.”

       Sherlock felt every hair on the back of his neck bristle. Watson released his arm and sighed.

      “Choices, Holmes, choices. Even the small ones matter.”

      One by one, Sherlock’s feet shuffled forward and he drifted in the direction of the gathering at the end of the corridor. Anderson still suffered from his nerves. His face was as white as the table linens at the Royal Grande Hotel. Lestrade had removed his hat to converse with Hooper (and he looked much too earnest for Sherlock’s liking). They both spoke to Anderson as if he were a child.

      “You see, it could not have been the lady on the table. I would wager my life on it. Our specter was a good two stone heavier and several inches taller than our body,” Hooper glanced Sherlock’s way as he neared. “Come, tell him, Holmes. She is still down there in the morgue, is she not?”

      Sherlock lifted his chin. Normally he enjoyed discombobulating Anderson but Hooper’s expectant gaze made it difficult to utter his next words.

      “Unfortunately, our bride has vanished from her slab.”

      Hooper’s eyes widened in shock. Lestrade’s mouth hung open.  Anderson squeaked, then clutched at his own throat. His eyes rolled back in his head and suddenly, he collapsed in a dead faint. Hooper cried out as the tall, thin man folded forwards on top of her and she buckled under his weight. Fortunately, the rest of the men were quick to react. Sherlock caught the pair before they fell, hefted Anderson off of his examiner and shoved the limp morgue assistant towards Lestrade and Watson.

     “Do something with him, will you?” He barked.

      Hooper leaned heavily on him for support and then attempted to stand. She winced at the effort.

      “Are you injured?” Sherlock asked gruffly and shot an angry look at the still unconscious Anderson.

      “I-I am fine,” she wheezed. “I just twisted my knee a bit.”

       Without a second thought, Sherlock dipped and lifted Hooper into his arms. She protested but he jostled her up against his chest and began strolling towards the exit where they would find the hackney cabs. Watson and Lestrade dragged Anderson along in their wake.  Hooper might as well have been a down-filled pillow as that is how insubstantial she felt in his arms. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the feather-lightness of her fingers resting on his chest. She felt stiff in his arms for a few seconds but eventually relaxed and laid her head against his shoulder. When her hair tickled the underside of his chin his arms involuntarily constricted.

     He cursed his vise-like memory. He could relive every nuance of every moment he experienced in vivid detail and at that instant the tremble of her lips beneath his and the shy experimentation of her tongue jumped to the forefront of his mind. He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have tasted her but in the intimacy of the morgue darkness, he had deduced from how her skin had warmed, her breaths had shortened and her fingers had pressed into him insistently that she desired him. So, he had relented and kissed her thinking that at twenty-eight, she was probably no stranger to stolen kisses. However, her sweet, ardent response had been something of an unexpected high very much like the blasted drugs he had once indulged in. Of course, like the drugs, he found himself feeling the potent need to consume Molly Hooper. 

      Out on the hospital curb, the hacks awaited on the like foxes circling, ready to snatch a meal. Then, just like that, Watson corralled a hack and Holmes reluctantly helped Hooper inside. He stepped back from the carriage as Watson solicited the Inspector to escort Hooper home.

      “Holmes,” Lestrade tipped his hat back on his head and glanced at the hack, “it seems providence has brought me here this evening. Do not worry, I will ensure your Miss Hooper is returned safely-”

      “She is not _my_ Miss Hooper, Inspector,” Sherlock grumbled. “She is her own person.”

     Lestrade nodded and looked at Watson in confusion. Then he seemed to perk up. Sherlock flexed his fingers as irritation coursed through him.

     “Right then,” the policeman replied with a beaming smile, “well, like I said, providence then. Oh, I almost forgot, you remember the Clairmont residence where that young fellow was done in by a fireplace poker? The family has requested your assistance. It seems the phantom bride has been haunting their back lane lately. They think the murder of that young fellow was the work of your Lady ghost. They want to have an interview with you tomorrow but discreet, mind you. They were none too appreciative of that article Dr. Watson wrote. They do not like that you implied the murder might be the work of one of the family.”

       Sherlock scoffed. “Watson wrote no such thing. He did not even mention the family in question.”

       “Ah, but you know in this town people make the connection. So, will you meet them?”

        Sherlock sighed and flicked his fingers. “I will send them a missive tomorrow to arrange it.”

       Lestrade bowed his head and climbed in next to Molly while Anderson was deposited in the seat opposite. The morgue assistant moaned and rolled to the side. Sherlock exhaled shakily as he closed the door. The experience was unsettling as if he were waving adieu to Hooper from a steamer taking her away across the Atlantic. Hooper sat forward as the cab lurched away, her hand pressed against the glass door and she gave him a questioning look through the warped carriage window. Sherlock felt oddly bereft, as if it was the last time he would gaze upon his examiner.

       Watson cleared his throat. “Well, Holmes, shall we go try to solve this case?”

       Sherlock flipped up his collar and spun on his heel.

      “Try?” He repeated bitterly. “I never have to try, Watson. I pursue things until their mystery is spent and I am left with the worthless gains of boredom. This is what I do.”

       His steps faltered and he stopped as a thought solidified in his mind. He stood for a moment in contemplation staring at the towering grey walls of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. His fixation with Molly Hooper need not consume him. The surest way to rid himself of this complication was to uncover her every secret, to know her so thoroughly that there would be nothing left to pique his curiosity. Sherlock clapped his hands together, suddenly energized by the formulation of a plan. He was going to see Hooper again. He was going to see much, much more of her.


	9. The Assembly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving things forward!

     Molly looked up at Inspector Lestrade. He had been acting strangely during the carriage ride back to her home. He seemed ill at ease in that moment as they stood on the front step of her Uncle’s town house.

      “Miss Hooper,” the policeman stared down at his hat a moment, “I . . . I was wondering if you would be agreeable to . . .ahem, erm . . .”

      His speech faltered. He sucked in a breath and shook some phantom dust from his hat.

      “I was wondering if I could call upon you again for a social visit.”

      Molly’s breath hitched in surprise. “Oh! Well, I s-suppose.”

      Lestrade twisted his hat in his hands.

      “Of course, I will seek your Uncle’s permission,” he smiled hopefully.

      “Of course,” Molly repeated.

      She did not know what to think. She’d had no idea that the Inspector was at all interested in her. Guilt prickled her conscience and she thought of Sherlock Holmes. She had only just kissed him an hour before. Yet, there was no understanding between them. She did not belong to him and certainly, she was under no illusions that the detective had honorable intentions where she was concerned. That was not to say she thought him a cad, but he was a singularly focused man. She very much doubted he wanted to them to form any kind of attachment. Molly felt an unfurling of pain in her heart as she finally admitted that to herself. She swallowed then feigned a smile for Lestrade. He returned a sincere and heartfelt smile of his own.

      “Perhaps if the weather is fine we might take a stroll in Regency Park,” he suggested.

      She chewed her lip, then nodded. She was incredibly flattered that this handsome man sought her company despite her improper behavior. She could ill afford to turn down any opportunities to find a husband. His regard was a blessing, in fact.

      “A walk would be lovely, Inspector Lestrade.”

     “Please, Miss Hooper,” he implored, “please, let us be friends. My name is Gregory. I-I would be honored if you referred to me as such.”

     Molly rubbed the back of her neck nervously. “Y-Yes, alright, Gregory. It would be my pleasure.”

     Gregory nodded and then unexpectedly took her hand. She felt his lips press fleetingly against her knuckles.

     “I bid you adieu, Miss Hooper,” he murmured.

     “Erm, if I am to use your Christian name, I suppose you should refer to me as Molly.”

     “Molly,” he nodded. “Goodnight.”

     She watched him retreat down the path to the street where the hack awaited. Anderson must have just stirred. He blinked groggily through the carriage window. She wrung her hands as she watched Gregory climb into the hack beside him. The carriage jerked and set off. Her system rushed with adrenaline as soon as the hack rounded the corner and she realized the predicament she had placed herself in. What would Holmes think if he found out? She gave her head a shake. The question was not if, but when!

     Molly sighed and slipped into through her front door. After removing her coat and shoes, she tip-toed upstairs to her room. She eyed the bed but her mind was awhirl. Instead of going straight to bed, she sat down at her writing desk and lit her dependable, ceramic-bottomed oil lamp with its faded flower applique. Her fingers raised to her lips and she closed her eyes. A little flush rushed through her lower stomach as she reminisced about the kisses Sherlock Holmes had bestowed upon her in the morgue. Everything about that had been so deliciously improper from the moist, stickiness of hips lips and the way he devoured her to the feel of his hard body with all its bone and muscle pressing along her length. Her breaths heated and scalded her lips as she recalled how he had hiked up her skirts and branded her thigh with the gentle caress of his fingers. The whole experience had been a frenetic jolt into womanhood as if she had been tossed into a bubbling cauldron of iniquity. Even after he had determined she was inexperienced, he had not tempered his response. That had been, she admitted, more than a little thrilling. A whimpering sigh escaped her lips as her sex clenched. The most alluring part of the incident had been the knowledge that she, Molly Hooper, essentially an inconsequential nobody from nowhere, had _affected_ the illustrious detective.

 _“Dear God, Hooper,”_ he had mumbled, _“if you were not an innocent, I would rut you right here in this morgue.”_

     The memory of his deep timber uttering those words made her physically ache. She pushed away from her desk and flopped back on her bed. She laid there a moment with her fingers quivering at her sides, then she bunched her skirts up in the same manner Holmes had done and touched her leg where he had placed his fingers. She bit her lip. That simple touch had been a tease. She had wanted him to explore further. She had wanted to be caressed somewhere infinitely more intimate. She moved her hand haltingly towards her drawers and dipped them past her navel below her waist. She hesitated there a moment just above her mound, her fingers trembled, then she slid them farther down to where she felt most needy.

     “Huh,” she mumbled as her fingers stroked between her folds. “Um!”

    Molly’s face flushed hot. A fluttering spark ignited beneath her finger. She was secretly mortified at the slippery moisture she found in her cleft. Yet, she rubbed the spot again and her legs trembled and fell apart. Then, it was as if Holmes’ hands were on her body, as if her own panting breaths were his breaths. She stroked that point again and again as she relived the consuming penetration of his tongue and the way he coaxed her to respond with each slide of his wet, velvety organ.

     “Mm,” she shut her lips firmly to quiet the cries that threatened to erupt.

     Her whole being felt tense. The ache and the need ratcheted up, coiling something inside her body. Soon, her fingers were gliding over her wet womanhood as if possessed. She was completely lost in the wicked feeling and entranced by the deliciousness of that friction. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her head relax back against her bedding. Her hips jerked off the mattress as she felt the first flash of an impending event.  

    “Unh,” she groaned, rubbing a bit more vigorously.

     Then, the event flared again but this time, it sent an explosive ripple from her sex throughout her body. She bit her lip so hard that it hurt; at the same time her torso shuddered and her legs clamped together on her hand. Several shudders rocked her body and she was wracked by seizures. It took several moments before she went limp enough to extract her hand.

     Molly laid there wheezing until she realized that she had just pleasured herself for the first time. She grabbed a pillow and held it against her face as she stifled a shriek. Her intimate parts still tingled and pulsed. Fire licked through her face. If there was a hell, she was certainly going to it for such immoral behavior! Even in medical school they were taught that women shouldn’t succumb to their physical desires as it led to all sorts of self-indulgence. Only prostitutes sought such pleasure, they were told, and that is why those women ended up stricken with all manner of terrible illnesses. It was said that this was the method in which God punished them for their weakness.

      She sat up and shoved her skirts down, then stood and quickly cleaned her hands at her wash basin on her dresser. When she was done, she shakily began to undress for bed. She cursed Holmes and what he had aroused in her. Would she descend into madness pursuing that release time and again? She could already feel the corruption of it spreading through her body and hear the cackle of an internal voice promising that she would want to feel it again. With a huff, she extinguished her lamp, tumbled into bed and pull her duvet up around her chin.

     Molly needed to regain control of her life. She would start by keeping Mr. Sherlock Holmes at a distance. If Gregory Lestrade wanted to court her, she would make an effort to be receptive to him. Despite his charm and pleasant demeanor, he did not inspire anywhere near the same kind of intense physical reaction in her as Holmes. In fact, he was exactly the kind of man whom she could admire without ever being swept away by base desires.

     Resolute, she shut her eyes and tried to focus on the charming Inspector. Yet, it was not his face that swam before her eyes as she lapsed into unconsciousness. A dark demon of a man with wickedly tempting lips was the last image that occupied her thoughts as she tumbled into her tumultuous dreams.

          *   *   *

     Sherlock rubbed his temple with the finger that laid alongside his face. His brow felt heavy and painfully drawn together as he listened to the inane driveling of Mrs. Regina Clairmont from where he sat across from her in his favorite green armchair. She was an absurd woman in his opinion. Her voice had a melodramatic tremor that set his nerves on edge. She wore pastel coming-out colours twenty years too young for her forty-plus years, a wide-brimmed hat with an overly-long ostrich feather that danced every time she spoke and garish, bulbous rings which she twiddled on her fingers. She was prattling on about the afterlife at that moment, presuming to educate them all about ghosts and ghouls. Watson shuffled in his seat to his left. Even he seemed bored of this tiresome exchange.

     At least if Sherlock had to suffer this drudgery, he was fortunate it was in the comfort of his own home. His eyes flicked to the beleaguered gentleman in his late fifties, Mr. Robert Clairmont and his three daughters who stood stoically behind the babbling matriarch of their family. The three girls aged nineteen through twenty-four were the only interesting parts of this equation. They were all very similar in stature to their mother, on the fleshy side of average, with dark brown hair and equally dark brown eyes. Other than the subtle differences between the arch of their brows and the shapes of their noses, they could have been exact replicas. Fortunately, none of them seemed to have the same proclivity for vacuous discourse as their mother. In fact, they were all reserved and difficult to read.

     He concentrated on the oldest daughter. She met his gaze but only briefly. Her slashing brows twitched as she glanced away. Could she have been the one who murdered the young man that Hooper, Watson and himself had examined in their basement? As the eldest of the trio, she would be the one most predisposed to have secrets. Yet, the younger sisters possessed a similar advanced maturity in their deportment. Sherlock found himself frustrated by the lack of ready details he was able to discern from the young women.

     “A what?” He barked as the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard spewed forth from Mrs. Clairmont’s puffy lips.

     “A séance, Mr. Holmes,” she repeated, lifting her chin, “I will be conducting one at my home two days hence. I would very much like for you to attend.”

     Sherlock gazed sideways at Watson with incredulity. His friend grimaced as he suppressed a smile.

     “Oh,” Watson cleared his throat, “that sounds brilliant, Mrs. Clairmont!”

     Sherlock glowered at Watson and his faux cheerfulness. Mrs. Clairmont sung the praises of some creole woman by the name of Sally Donovan who would be conducting the event, no doubt just a clever con trying to make her way in the world. He stretched his neck and reminded himself that these idiots were paying clients. Not only that, but he had a mystery to uncover and this family appeared to be thick into it. As for Watson, he would find a way to repay the doctor’s treachery.

      “Excuse me, Mrs. Clairmont, as I am not sure I understand your requirement,” he ground out. “Why would you want me to attend a séance?”

      She tittered a laugh. “Well, Mr. Holmes, I am not a detective. I do not know what to ask a vengeful spirit. I mean, she might lie to me.  She is, after all, a criminal, is she not? So, you can deduce if she is being forthcoming or not! You will know how to converse as to avoid agitating her, I imagine. God Forbid Mr. Clairmont says something inappropriate and we have to perform an exorcism!”

      Sherlock rubbed his forehead as tension began to set in. Try as he might, he could not keep the wrinkle out of his brow. He could feel it cutting a deep groove between his eyes. He needed to get Mrs. Clairmont and her brood out of his flat before he erupted. As if sensing a pending release of vitriol, Watson jumped to his feet.

      “Hmm, erm, well, you will have to let us know the time of day you expect to hold this communique with the dead. Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Clairmont, I think we have learned all we need for now and, of course, we do not want to take up any more of your valuable time.”

      “Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, “there is much I need to do to prepare myself.”

      Watson managed to hastily hustle the family from Sherlock’s residence in a matter of minutes then returned to his seat. Sherlock shot up from his chair and paced as soon as the door closed behind them. He pulled at his brow as Mrs. Hudson swept into the room with a tea tray followed by none other than Mary Watson.

      “God, I thought they would never leave,” she stalked directly to her husband, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Sorry, my love, I contemplated rescuing you earlier but I thought it better if I stayed out of sight. I am not Mrs. Clairmont’s favorite person at present.”

       “That is perfectly understandable,” John murmured and stole a kiss from her jaw.

       Sherlock wrinkled his nose but stopped in his tracks. “Why? Why are you at odds with that woman?”

       Mary smirked as she brushed her hands down the front of her navy blue and white striped overcoat. Then she peeled her gloves off and slapped them in one hand while she slid her other hand around Dr. Watson’s shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. She must have been out walking quite vigorously, her cheeks were rosy.

       “I tried to recruit her daughters to join our group,” her brows twitched. “We plan to march again next week. We need to increase our numbers.”

       “Oh, Lord!” Mrs. Hudson muttered as she arranged some cups on the buffet under the window. “Not that suffragist nonsense again.”

       Mary poked her lips out and angled towards the older woman. “It is not nonsense, Mrs. Hudson! We women are half the population, we need representation!”

       Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes as she set about pouring some tea. “Representation? I fail to see the difference of voting for this man or that. It is still men who decide our fate!”

       Mary exhausted a noisy breath. “The point is that once we obtain the vote, we will be able to cast our votes for women candidates who can help craft laws with women’s sensibilities in mind. I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but even the most brilliant of men, even a parliament full of Sherlock Holmeses could never hope to fully understand our struggles and needs.”

       Watson frowned at his wife.

       “An assembly of Holmeses? What about an assembly of John Watsons? Would not that be brilliant?”

       Mary’s lip poked out as she half-frowned, half-grinned. “Oop, I beg your forgiveness, darling. Of course it would!”

       Sherlock stood there a moment, tapping his toe on the wooden floorboards. A thought began to coalesce.

      “Women,” he murmured.

      Mary’s head turned in his direction and her eyes snapped to his. “Oh, careful with your next words, Mister . . .”

      He rolled his head around. “I need women.”

      Three sets of eyes stopped and stared at him. All of their mouths could catch flies. He scowled at the trio.

      “Oh, please! You know that is not what I meant!”

      Mary suppressed a smile. “Hmm, are you sure? A little birdy told me- oomph!”

     Watson nudged her ribs. “Erm, what do you need women for, Holmes?”

     He chose to ignore their ridiculous innuendos. “I need women to come with me to this séance, Watson. Mary said it herself, only women can truly read other women correctly. I need operatives.”

     Mary’s grin spread across her face. “Operatives, plural?”

     Mrs. Hudson made a sound. “I hope you do not mean to enlist me in this!”

     Sherlock scoffed. “No, Mrs. Hudson, I do not trust you to keep your head if a phantom appears. This exercise demands the two most skeptical women I have ever met, Mary and-”

     “And?” Mary interrupted him and leaned forward.

     “Hooper,” he muttered. “Molly Hooper.”

     Mary beamed, clapped and wagged her brows at Watson. “Oh, what fun! I get to meet the infamous Miss Molly at last.”

     “Try not to corrupt her,” Sherlock returned gruffly.

      “Hmm, I am certain it is too late to do that, Sherlock Holmes.”


	10. The Courting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Holmes is very naughty.

     Molly scrunched her nose as she looked up into the sky above Regency Park. Angry blue and purple clouds encroached from the west but otherwise, bright sunshine streamed down in streaks of bright white and gold.

      “Do you think it will rain?” She glanced back at Gregory Lestrade seated across from her in their open carriage.

     The Inspector blinked and turned his face upwards so he could see past the brim of his brown derby. His shoulders hunched beneath his tan, tweed jacket then he shook his head.

      “Um, no, I think we have plenty of time but if you are concerned we do not have to do this . . . that is, I suppose we can go for a walk another time.”

      The poor man fidgeted and had such an anxious look in his wide, brown eyes that against her better judgement, Molly fixed a nonchalant smile on her face.

      “Oh, n-no, you are probably right. I am sure we will complete our walk before the sky opens up on us.”

     Greg smiled and twitched his brows. “We can cut our sojourn short and return to our transport if that comes to pass. We need not get wet at all. I can erect the roof to cover us.”

     “Indeed,” Molly replied with a weak smile.

     The open barouche rolled to a stop in front of the entry to the park. Try as she might, Molly could not muster much excitement for their outing. She found that she liked the handsome Inspector a great deal. He was a bright, congenial man but he stirred only feelings of friendship or at most, a sort of brotherly regard. Yet, she convinced herself that this was not an entirely unfortunate development. She could not imagine quarreling with this man. If their association proceeded to an understanding, at least she would have a comfortable life with a comfortable husband.

     She swallowed and looked away, suddenly a bit melancholy. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had thoroughly spoiled every expectation she had of what could exist between a man and a woman. He had shown her combustion and even the generation of steam – he had made her feel like a locomotive’s boiler popping its rivets. She covered her mouth as she remembered what she had done to herself just thinking about Holmes. With a quick intake of breath, she pressed her lips together and she returned her focus to her companion.

     Greg disembarked his borrowed carriage and then held his hand up for Molly. “Shall we?”

      Her face heated. If he knew where her thoughts had been, she might die of mortification. With a nod she took his hand. As her foot sought the metal step, she caught sight of a dark figure astride a big beast of a black horse across the park. Her stomach lurched and she gripped Greg’s hand tightly. She blinked several times as her foot slid ungraciously onto the step. She thought for a moment the figure was the consulting detective himself, Sherlock Holmes, but whomever rode the giant horse turned and thundered away. She let out a breath, grabbed a handful of her light blue day dress and hopped down to the cobblestones.

     “Molly, are you alright?” Greg enquired as she fluffed out her skirts.

     Her eyes flew to his. “Oh, y-yes, you remember that I am not very gracious when exiting these things, hmm? I am a menace, really.”

     “Rest assured, I was prepared to catch you,” he responded with a smile.

     The Inspector offered his elbow. She took it and they began to stroll towards the center of the park. She dismissed her sighting of Holmes as product of her overactive imagination. Fortunately, she did not have to make a concerted effort to converse with Greg. Their discourse was easy as if they were old friends. He did not shy away from discussing the cases he worked on and their more salacious details. She very much appreciated his candor as it meant he had a progressive attitude, at least where she was concerned. As they made their way past the prim, cultivated gardens, stately oak trees and walked by other couples who dipped their heads in acknowledgement, she could actually envision a future with him. She snuck a peak at his profile. There was a bit of grey streaked through his sandy blonde hair. He had a manly jaw. She was not entirely adverse to the idea of kissing him if he shaved his ridiculous sideburns. Perhaps she would let him if he tried, just to see if anything more than friendship could spark between them.

     _Cra_ -ack!

     Molly’s gaze flew wildly to the sky as a flash of light jumped between clouds. The billowing towers seemed to have come out of nowhere. Thunder rolled across the sky.

     “Uh, oh!” Greg murmured nervously.

     A few fat drops splatted around them. The drops kicked up the fine dust like falling pebbles just to the side of the stone trail. The pair of them just managed to look at one another after that when the sky fell down around them. Instantly, the brim of Molly’s delicate, parasisal straw hat began to sag and she felt the cool wick of water through the layers of her clothing. Greg grabbed her hand.

     “Come, we will seek shelter back at the Queen Victoria monument.”

     Molly bunched up her dress and ran with Greg the hundred yards or so to the mausoleum-ish open stone and pillar structure. Once there, she unpinned her hat from her head and shook the water from it as they stood between a pair of Roman columns. She stifled a sigh. The dainty hat  made of delicate, parasisal straw with its trailing blue ribbon had been an impulse purchase specifically for this walk in the park. On top of that, she had dressed up in her prettiest frock, a light blue and cream, pin-striped creation. Unfortunately, the hat would probably never recover and mud stained the hem of her skirts. She cared little for their destruction except that it probably served her right to think she could just dress like a lady and expect the rest of the universe to comply with her plans.

      When the rain did not seem to abate and actually turned into a deluge of biblical proportions that threatened to flood the floor of their shelter, Greg cursed.

     “Well, I cannot have you out in this weather. My apologies, Molly, I was so eager to spend time with you that I made a grievous error in judgement.”

     Molly laughed and hesitantly patted his arm. “O-Oh, it is quite alright, Greg. Shall we make a dash for it?”

     He took her hand, turned to face her and kissed the tips of her fingers. “No, please, I will go secure the carriage and ensure the driver has put up the roof. Will you be alright if I leave you here for a few minutes?”

     Molly nodded, suddenly shy. She wanted to protest his misguided chivalry but smiled instead. Greg looked down, frowned, and then glanced up again.

     “I am so sorry . . . sorry about your hat and your dress and everything . . . did you enjoy our time together at least?”

      She tucked her lip in and nodded again.

      He breathed a sigh of relief. “I am so glad. Molly . . .”

     Her nerves set off a quake in her body as his eyes searched her face. Her breathing became shallow. He had a look on his face as if he were trying to make a decision. His gaze flicked to her lips. She was in panic mode then. She wasn’t ready yet for his kiss. She needed more time. She frantically tried to think of some way to stall him as he leaned forwards. Mercifully, another bolt of lightning ripped through the sky like a violent slash of scissors and she jumped. The interruption seemed to disrupt whatever moment Greg thought they were having and his head snapped back. Pink infused his flesh.

     “I-I should go,” he muttered.

      Molly watched Greg depart with a heaby heart but moreso, a sigh of relief. Really, she had not been afraid of him but when it came down to it, she had not wanted to kiss him either.

     “Damnit!” she mumbled and kicked a pebble out into the rain.

     She followed the bounce of it towards the towering topiaries between the monument and the main trail. Her heart slammed in her chest when she saw a dark shape move behind them. She shuffled back quickly as the heavy clack of hooves reverberated off the trail. Fear made her skin crawl as she thought about how vulnerable she was in the recesses of the monument which was kind of a circular structure that sheltered a statue of Queen Victoria. It included a curved wall carved with the initials of fallen soldiers at one end. The structure was located near the middle of Regency park with nothing else within a few hundred yards. For all intents and purposes, she might as well have been on the moon. In this downpour, no one would hear her scream if she was accosted.

      A loud snort sounded nearer to Molly’s location just outside the monument. With her heart hammering in her chest, she slunk back into it until she could hide behind the statue at its center. She stood there in the dim interior shaking and straining to listen for the steed that had just exhaled noisily. Just when she thought the horse had moved off, she heard the slap of leather soles hitting wet concrete. She sucked her frame right against the cool stone and tensed, her head rested uncomfortably on the back of the Queen’s carved skirt where she stood atop her square base. Molly tried to rationalize that whomever had arrived was just another human being seeking shelter but dread had her in its clutches. Footsteps approached her location.

     Molly prepared to run. She gathered a handful of her dress and lurched forwards off the statue. She whirled to flee but a large man dressed in a long black coat stepped in her path. She shrieked and scrambled backwards.

     “Hooper,” a deep voice murmured.

     “Oh!” She went rigid from her feet right up the back up her neck like a rope snapping taut when she realized who it was. “Oh, hell! What are you doing here, Holmes?”

     She glanced back over her shoulder anxiously looking to see if Greg was in sight, then returned her attention to the detective. His ivory face was unreadable beneath his deerstalker. Her heart kept pounding as if still in flight mode.

      “Are you missing your date?” his voice dripped with disdain as he removed his hat and stuffed it in a pocket. “I am afraid he might be awhile. A wheel has inexplicably come off your carriage.”

      Molly crossed her arms. “Is that so?”

     She pressed her lips together as she studied his somewhat perturbed expression. His lips were tense, strained at the corners. There were a few tight wrinkles around his narrowed eyes. She just knew he'd had something to do with the laming of Greg’s borrowed transport. That made her a little angry on her date’s behalf. With a sniff, she lifted her chin and prepared to stalk past Holmes. She only made it a few steps before he moved into her path. She flopped her limp hat on her head and balled her fists.

      “Excuse me,” her voice was curt, “I must go assist my friend.”

      His brow flinched. “I cannot allow you out in this downpour.”

      Molly sucked in a breath and puffed at the ribbon on her hat as it dangled directly in between her eyes. It temporarily drifted aside but fluttered back into her field of vision which upped her level of annoyance considerably. She flicked it with a finger only to have it fall once more.

       “I decide what I do,” she sputtered.

       Her hat sagged, diminishing the dignity of her rebuke. Any second, she was going to lose her temper.

      “You do not get to tell me what to do,” she attempted to fix her hat but the brim fully collapsed over her eyes.

      Holmes huffed. “Oh, for God’s sake!”

      He whipped the hat off her head. It skidded across the floor. Then, he stepped forwards and cupped her face. He walked her backwards until she bumped into the rear of Queen Victoria high on her pedestal. His mouth came down on hers with the full weight of his frustration and he kissed her like he wanted to imprint himself. Almost as soon as his greedy lips moved, she opened her mouth and answered his demands. He sucked in a breath past her lips. His chest seemed to swell and fall as if he struggled to regain his faculties. Finally, his lips broke away and his head rose. She stared up at him with eyes that felt too large for her face. Her insides quivered. She hadn’t seen his face before he kissed her in the morgue and she was glad for it. His intensity and conflicted emotions were devastating to her equilibrium.

      “Hooper,” he breathed, “why are you on an outing with Inspector Lestrade?”

     She inhaled shakily. “That is none of your concern!”

     His hot breaths bathed her skin. “It concerns me greatly.”

     Her fingers vibrated on his lapels. “It should not . . .”

     His eye twitched.

     “Do you know that he has designs on making you his wife? That his intentions are-” his lip curled in distaste “-honorable?”

      She swallowed thickly. “O-Of course. I have no career, Holmes, and despite your promises, it remains that way. I am twenty-eight. What am I supposed to do? Inspector Lestrade is a respectable man. I am fortunate he is even considering me as a potential wife. ”

     Holmes’ nostrils flared and his neck stretched sideways. “But it is not what you want.”

     One hand crept from her jaw to the back over her neck where fingers danced up her nape. She tilted her mouth up, her lips parted. His eyes were slanted to near slits. She could not answer him. A lie she had been telling herself faltered on her lips. Holmes seemed to wordlessly understand her reticence.

     “Why are you humoring him?” he murmured just a hair’s breadth away, each subsequent word was enunciated with a puff of breath. “You do not want honorable.”

      “As if you know what I want!”

     His weight shifted and better secured her against the cool stone. “Yes, Molly Hooper, I think I do.”

     She groaned in frustration as he hovered there.

    “Why do you always do that?”

     Molly felt just the thinnest gossamer brush of his lips. It was so light, she was not even sure he had kissed her.

      “Do what?” his voice was impossibly low and deep.

      “Why do you taunt me?”

      “Oh, my dear Hooper,” he intoned in a rumbling baritone, “you think this is torture? You think this is as cruel as I can be?”

      “No,” she was nearly breathless. “No, I do not believe I have even begun to determine of what you are capable.”

      His gaze swooped over her face. Her flesh felt scorched where his eyes paused to drink in her appearance.

      “Do you want to know?”

     She gulped. Despite the surrounding onslaught of rain reminding her of their public location and the high probability that they could be caught in their compromising position at any moment, she felt the muscles in her legs quiver. An excited shiver ran the length of her body. Holmes’ pupils dilated. He purposefully snaked an arm around her waist then, keeping eye contact the whole time. There was a challenge in his expression as if he dared her to disapprove of what he was doing.

     In an instant, he hoisted her up and propped her on the narrow ledge of the Queen’s pedestal. Next, he bunched up the volumes of her dress and pushed up her skirts. She gasped and steadied herself on his chest as the damp air seeped through her thin undergarments. His incredibly warm hands slid up her thighs over her stockings and he stepped between her legs.

     “Wh-What are you doing?” she could not take her eyes from his perfectly formed face.

     His eyes narrowed in uncertainty, he tipped up his chin and he looked down over his straight nose and plush lips. “Do you want me to stop?”

      Molly’s chest felt heavy as she inhaled and then let out a shuddering breath. Her skin flashed hot with mortification.

      “N-No, oh, my word, I do not want you to stop b-but . . . this . . . this is downright indecent, Holmes.”

      He blinked slowly and dipped his head. Then he laughed softly.

      “Yesss, yes it is,” he leaned forward and placed a feather-light kiss on the corner of her mouth.

      She closed her eyes and his lips moved along her jaw. Her heart thumped so hard she could feel her pulse in her temples. His hands worked at her drawers and stockings until she felt them tug from her hips. Cold air stung her bare thighs and then the rest of her legs as he removed her intimate attire completely. She chewed her lip. She was quickly losing an internal battle with her internal voice of reason. The air in her lungs was so dense it was as if she breathed a fog. Her hands crept around his neck as her body tensed and her legs shook. She found herself clinging to him in anticipation. She trembled all over.

       “Christ, you are so . . . innocent in these matters,” he growled, “it drives me to madness.”

       Molly swallowed a wetting of saliva in her mouth. She dropped her head and nuzzled his neck. Her face burned. She wanted to beg him to proceed, to touch her as she had touched herself. As if hearing her inner pleas, one of his hands inched between her legs and with a single stroke, parted her folds and struck her nerve bundle like flint. She whimpered into his neck as a delicious snap of sensation like the crack of a whip radiated inwards from that point.

      “Unh,” she jerked her hips forward.

     He sucked in a breath and began gently sliding a knuckle up and down. Her core felt hot, damp and pulsed with fire as he switched to rubbing her sex with the pad of his thumb. He alternated between small circles and quick strokes up and down over the tiny bump there. She was full on gasping and tilting her hips to meet him desperate to feel that delicious release again.

      “Mm, why do I think this is familiar to you?” he murmured, his exhalation tickled the hairs behind her ear. “It is like you know what is . . . coming.”

      “Ah, oh . . . I-I do not know what you mean . . .”

      “Rubbish,” he responded gruffly, “have you pleasured yourself before?”

       He increased his onslaught. Molly was completely gripped by what he was doing, unable to respond. Her cries echoed off the stone walls of the monument. Then, his movements slowed. She grunted in frustration.

       “Have you, Hooper? Have you touched yourself?”

       She licked her lips and nodded against his neck. She felt a huff of hot air blast her cheek from his nose.

       “Did you think of me when you did it?” he asked in a rolling, rattling tone.

       “Y-Yes.”

      A tremor wracked his frame. His free hand cupped the back of her neck and coaxed her head up. He stared at her only briefly, looking a bit perplexed, then his mouth came down on hers, hot and wet. At the same time she felt the impossibly slow glide of a long finger into her body. She clenched around its strange invasion and gasped on his lips as it slid all the way inside. He kissed her more insistently. His tongue mimicked the action of his digit. Molly felt a familiar tension build at the gentle pumping of his possession. The ache in her belly and at her juncture blossomed.

      Unexpectedly, Holmes began to slink down and away from her and his finger withdrew. For a moment, she thought he might make good on his promise to cruelly leave her wanting but then he sank until his head was between her legs. Her limbs stiffened as a warm flare of breath heated the inside of her thighs. Her hands gripped his shoulders.

     “Relax, Hooper,” he murmured.

      “But . . . o-oh! Huh!”

      Molly nearly fell off her perch when his tongue parted her crease and probed where his fingers had been. She knew what she was letting him do was all sorts of wrong but she was too far gone for second thoughts. Slowly at first and then more vigorously his tongue flicked and stroked her sensitive nub. His fingers pressed into her thighs with each twitch of her hips. She felt the beginnings of her release as a pulse like a gas lamp that had been sparked only to flicker for a moment and dim. His tongue became more insistent, more targeted on her flaring juncture. Then, it was as someone fully opened the valve and a cloud ignited. His fleshy, velvety tongue slipped one more time over her most sensitive spot and she nearly screamed. An intense wave of pleasure like the ripples of water disturbed by a stone undulated through her abdomen.

      “Ah, unh, oh my lord,” she rasped.

      Her hips bucked a couple more times. Something about their scandalous location, the bracing outside air and the way her dress rode up made the experience all the more intense. She collapsed, her body went limp and he allowed her to drape herself over him. She slowly floated back to Earth. As she clung to him, she felt the hard insistence of something through his layers of clothing. Then she noticed that his shoulders were stiff.

      “Are you alright?” she raised her head to see a grimace on his sculpted face.

      Holmes nodded slowly. “Yes.”

      Molly experienced a painful bout of bashfulness. “But you are . . . strained?”

     He nodded. “I am.”

     She took a deep breath. “Wh-What do you need?”

     He scrutinized her with a slightly bewildered expression.

     “You,” he replied pointedly. “Would you come with me?”

     “Where?” she asked but she already knew.

      “Back to my home. Back to Baker Street.”


	11. The Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I learned several of my Sherlollians are shameless tarts who enjoy naughty fanfiction at work. Well, if you are just sitting down for your break, I shan't dissapoint you (well maybe a little but don't be so impatient!!!). Also, it only gets worse from here, so you better have a backup plan if you don't want people asking you why you're pink in the face. I plan legitimately toe-curling chapters. Reader beware!

      Molly tugged her skirts back into some semblance of order as Sherlock Holmes’ request sank in. Rational contemplation was nearly impossible as she sat perched on Queen Victoria’s podium with her legs either side of his large frame and every nerve in her body half-alight. She tentatively touched the front of his great wool coat, then spread her fingers over his front. Her hand rose with his chest as he inhaled a great lungful of air then it slowly fell again. The rain outside the monument chose that moment to abate. The steady beat of its advancing drumline diminished to the patter of an idling snare. She swallowed nervously and looked up at him.

     “Y-You want me to come with you . . . to your home?” her voice echoed off the walls.

      Holmes nodded slowly. His gaze was piercing, like the stab of a crystalline spire. Molly had trouble maintaining eye contact but was compelled to drown in the pale green and blue orbs flecked with sprinkles of gold and amber like an insect in sugar-water.

      “You would like to . . . to . . .”

      Her voice trailed off as she thought about what he proposed. There could be no mistake about his intentions. He wanted to deflower her without pretense or promises. The knowledge of that both caused her womanhood to palpitate in anticipation of more pleasure but it also terrified her. If she did what he asked, if she went with him right then, the only thing left of her that was any value to anyone would be spent on a man with a self-admitted proclivity for cruelty. He must have sensed her reluctance because an undercurrent rippled through his expression. His eyes narrowed in assessment. 

     “You have reservations,” he said simply.

      Molly let out an erratic sigh. “Y-Yes, of course I do.”

      Holmes rested his hands on the ledge both sides of her thighs and leaned closer to pin her with his gaze. Her fingers curled on his coat lapels when she felt warmth radiating from his skin. He was almost close enough to kiss her again.

      “Why, when it is something we both want?”

      She puffed a short breath. “You are m-mad. To start, it would not be fair to Greg to just disappear without a word.”

      He sneered and then looked sideways with a vexed expression. His shoulders hunched and he took several steadying breaths. Then he faced her once more. His pupils were as large and dark as polished onyx stones.

      “I do not care in the slightest if I offend Graham. He has offended me,” he bit out.

      Molly frowned.

     “What? How? ‘Greg’,” she emphasized, “is your friend!”

      Holmes’ brows twisted. His lips protruded before he spoke.

     “Are you attempting to bait me? You know why.”

     “No, I am certain I do not!”

      She felt his large hand move from beside her leg to splay over her abdomen. His fingers stretched from one side of her waist to the other. His eyes bore into hers.

     “I found you,” he ground out, “you are my examiner.”

      Molly’s belly tensed beneath his hand. “That is as incomprehensible answer as I have ever received. I do not know what you mean by that.”

     His eyes slid over her face, pausing briefly on her lips. She felt his hand flex and his fingers and thumb press along her lowest ribs. He seemed to struggle to tame his heavy breathing.

     “Hooper, let me clarify this issue for you then,” he heaved a breath, “I am the answer to your questions, to every question you have ever had. I am what you have been waiting for and the reason you have clung so long to your virtue . . . do you think I am going to let George-”

     “Greg!”

     “Grrreg!” He spit. “Greg! Hmph, do not think for a single instant that I will allow Greg to claim what is mine.”

      Molly’s heart sped up at his confession. It was an odd sensation being equally excited but incredibly incensed at the same time. She lifted her shaking fingers from his chest. Her legs stiffened.

      “Yours?” her voice was low with fury.

     She was not sure who she was more upset with, him or herself for reacting so viscerally.

     Holmes gave her a little push on her stomach as if to counteract the rise of her hackles. “Yes . . . _mine_.”

     She shifted on her seat until her spine was taut and her head butted against the unyielding statue at her back. She needed some separation from him to think because her body hummed to the sound of that possessive declaration. Mercifully, her mind rebelled when she thought about the selfishness of his words.

     “What makes me in any way, yours? I-I am not your fiancé or your w-wife. We have no understanding. I am not indebted to you. In fact, your ledger is in the red. My career, my reputation - what have you ever done but take, Mr. Holmes? What will you do once you have taken everything from me?”

     He flinched. His brow was heavy as he searched her face. Confusion skittered across his features. Guilt weighed on her as his eyes widened and his face flushed with colour.

     “This is your opinion then? I suppose I have earned it but forgive me,” he hissed, “I fail to see how the loss of your chastity at all factors in to your worth, Miss Hooper.”

     She lifted her chin. Her face burned but she was well past the point of admitting her hypocrisy. His statement was something she should have championed, something she should have believed of herself. Instead, she doubled down on her contradictory logic.

    “Oh?” her voice trembled. “Really? Would you still desire to, as you put it, ‘claim’ me if I was not so inexperienced?”

     His head tilted and his brows pinched. “Yes, I would want you just the same.”

     Molly gulped. Her indignation faltered. Her pitch became higher and less confident.

     “I-I cannot just go off with you. I cannot! It would be very unwise . . .”

     Holmes sputtered a sigh and pushed back from the where he had her encapsulated. He yanked at his coat, adjusted his trousers and pulled his hat from his pocket. After a quick shake, he flipped it on his head. Molly hopped off her perch. Mortified, she gathered her underthings from the concrete floor. She stared down at them ruefully. A change of light over her head caused her to look up. Holmes thrust her hat in her direction. She took it with trembling hands and stuffed her discarded garments in the empty cap. The lines on his forehead deepened.

     “You are . . . _not?_ . . . going to put your drawers back on?”

     His nostrils flared. Once again, his chest rapidly expanded and contracted. Molly shrugged and fiddled with the brim of her hat.

     “They are soiled.”

     He dragged a hand over his face and groaned. Then he hesitantly turned away, spun back and stalked up to her. In an instant, she was in his arms and his mouth descended. His lips slammed against hers desperately. The faint, not at all unpleasant smell of her arousal wafted to her nostrils and the vivid recollection of what his wicked mouth had done to her sex flashed in her mind. With a moan, she dropped her hat with its contents to the floor, knocked the deerstalker from his head and flung her arms around his neck. Their tongues tangled in a repeat of his earlier ministrations.

     “Hooper,” he groaned between kisses, “do not ask me to withstand the torment of your being escorted home by Lestrade with the knowledge that you are _naked_ beneath your dress.”

      His deep voice sent shivers through her body. Her head fell back and his lips moved down the side of her throat. His fingers poked under her collar and tugged it roughly aside to expose her shoulder. His tongue swirled along her collarbone then his teeth nipped gently at her flesh. His large hand branded her lower back with heat and urged her in full contact with his body. Once more, his adamant arousal made itself known. There had to be something she misinterpreted about what she was feeling through the fabric separating them. His member could not be as massive as it hinted through his clothes. She wriggled closer to get a better sense of its size.

       “Hmm, my wicked girl, are you curious about something?” He lifted his mouth from her bare skin.

       Again, warmth flooded her cheeks. “Erm, uh-”

      His eyes were hooded.

       “Here,” he grasped her wrist, rubbed a thumb over her pulse and guided her hand towards his groin.

       Excitement quickened her breaths as her fingers brushed between the halves of his heavy coat.

        “Hu-uh,” he grunted when her fingers contacted the outline of him.

       Molly studied his beautiful face gripped with what looked like a modicum of pain. His eyes were squeezed shut. However, she instinctively knew it was not pain but something else. Emboldened, she flattened her palm against the stiff yet springy feel of the engorged flesh concealed in his trousers. When she explored its considerable length, his lips parted and his expression went a bit slack. A fiery exhalation scalded her lips as she contemplated actually handling his staff. Her sex pulsed and flooded with a tingling sensation. She knew how the mechanics of copulation worked but could not fathom what she was supposed to do with an organ of his size. He hissed as she explored downwards.

      “D-Does this feel alright, Holmes,” she whispered. “I am not . . . hurting you?”

      His eyes fluttered open. “No, good God, no.”

      The detective stared at her a moment longer. His lips moved as if he had a million questions. Finally he gave his head a shake.

      “How can I convince you to come home with me?”

      Truthfully, he needn’t do much more than gaze upon her as he did right then, as if he were filled of coals burning from her touch. She wanted to lie with him, to open her legs to that splendid, girthy flesh he bore. Yet, the last vestiges of her sense still stood between her and what she knew would be bliss. She retracted her hand but he didn't relent his hold. He pulled her even closer.

     “I need you to make me a promise before I cross your threshold,” she replied in a quivering whisper. “Is that something you can do?”

     His chin rose warily. “That depends. I cannot make the kind of promises Lestrade might blubber. I am sorry, but I am not the marrying kind.”

      She flinched internally. Vows hadn’t been what she was after but his admission still caused a stab of pain in the place where her most secret hopes lived. She had never really believed he might fall in love or want to marry her, but the confirmation of that improbability was a stinging blow all the same.

     “That is not the sort of promise I meant,” she rasped, “my requirements are much less specific.”

     “What then? What do you require?” he murmured.

     “Y-You must find me a satisfactory life to live. I am adrift, you see.”

      He thought about her words and then scowled. “This is an impossible request. What is a satisfactory life? How does one determine its measure?”

      Molly lifted her shoulders. “I am not sure. You are the brilliant one, Sherlock Holmes. This is the remuneration I desire. If you make me this promise th-then . . .”

     She swallowed.

     “Then you can have me,” she whispered huskily.

     Holmes' manhood twitched between them and she thought she might liquify into a puddle. She pulled in a little breath as she observed a spasm jerk his lid and his head drift back as he deliberated. His eyes, constricted in thought, remained on her face. After what seemed like an age, he gravitated forwards again. A decision had sparked in the depths of his eyes. The lines of his face tweaked and he flicked his tongue over his front teeth.

     “Consider the bargain struck,” he rumbled slowly, “but be warned, I mean to hold you to the same terms you demand. You must give yourself to me in every way imaginable and be available whenever I request until I am also . . . _satisfied_.”

       She silently whistled as she exhaled.  What was she thinking? This sort of arrangement was a deal with the devil. She licked her lips. It wasn’t marriage. It wasn’t what she had ever envisioned for herself but in a roundabout way, it was exactly what she wanted. For better or worse, she would belong to Sherlock Holmes.

     Suddenly the crunch of feet over gravel approached their location. Their time had run out.

    “Molly?” a familiar voice called from a distance.

     She looked frantically at Holmes. They jumped apart. He quickly collected their hats. She did her best to fix her attire.

      “You have to go,” she scolded him.

      He raised his brows. “I thought we had a bargain.”

     “Yes, but with one caveat. I will not humiliate Greg Lestrade by leaving with you right now.”

      He opened his mouth but she wagged her finger. “Take yourself away or you can forget everything. We can sort the details out later.”

     “Fine,” he growled, “but you must end this charade with Lestrade immediately.”

     “Molly?” Greg called again, he was almost upon them.

      Molly glanced over her shoulder then looked back to Holmes who awaited her answer with grim determination. With a shallow nod, she sealed her fate. His eyes slanted ever so slightly then he put on his deerstalker, huffed and spun away. His fingers of his right hand flexed outwards before he squeezed it into a fist. Her eyes followed his broad shoulders until he exited between two columns.

     That is where Greg Lestrade found her, staring after an empty void and wondering what the hell might come out of it.

     “Oh, thank the Lord,” he exhaled then looked towards the same space, “um, was someone here with you?”

      She tried to suppress what she knew was a guilty expression. “Just a gentleman seeking shelter for a spell.”

      Greg frowned. “Did he . . .  disrespect you at all, Molly?”

     Her face flushed. She was ashamed of herself in that moment. The poor man was shivering and soaked through as if he had been dunked in a lake. Her throat constricted as she recalled how grievously she had abused Greg’s trust. She could not bear to speak lies to him so she shook her head.

     He held out his arm. “I am sorry I left you for so long but the wheel came off our transport and I had to assist the driver in putting it back on. We must have lost a pin during our journey here.”

     “Oh,” she cleared her throat, “how . . . unfortunate.”

     They began to walk out and away from the monument. Only the odd drop fell and the clouds began to dissipate as if the sky itself had bowed to the will of the great consulting detective. Molly found herself disquieted as Greg kept glancing sideways at her anxiously.

     “I must apologize for the delay again, Molly,” he murmured. “This was not at all how I imagined this day unfolding.”

     She smiled sadly at him. “Please, do not, it is not necessary.”

     “No, no, I fear. . . I left you alone too long.”

     She squeezed his arm. “No, do not blame yourself for anything, Greg. You have done nothing wrong. You have been naught but the kindest of . . . friends.”

     “Friends?” He looked forwards across the park with his eyes wide. “Bollocks, I would say I have most seriously erred then. Yes, indeed, I left you alone for far, far too long.”

                 *   *   *

     Sherlock walked into the back room of the Diogenes club to an unexpected scene. The curtains had all been drawn. The absence of daylight in the dark paneled room made details difficult to discern. The only light came from a fire in the hearth next to a tall, wing-backed chair where he could just see a large forearm retract with a jerk from a nearby side table. A woman dressed in a dark silk crepe dress the colour of emeralds stood in front of the chair but she was distant enough that her face was hidden by the shadows.

     “Ow, that smarts!” a familiar voice cried.

     The woman raised her arm and snapped what looked like riding crop.

     “Drop it!” She commanded, the crack of leather sounded as the crop switched across the fingers of the man’s other hand. “I said, ‘drop it’!”

      Something fell to the floor and rolled under the man’s chair.

      “Y-You are a cruel, cruel woman!” He groaned. “I loathe you.”

     Sherlock was about to hurry forward to assist his older brother when the woman leaned down over him. The soft, amber light from the fire illuminated her signature smirk and silky brunette coif as she reached out to pat Mycroft’s face. Sherlock instantly recognized Miss Anthea Salisbury, the eldest daughter of the new Prime Minister.

      “Oh, you know it is for your own good, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured. “Otherwise you might put up a bit more of a fight, mm?”

      “I do not understand this sudden interest in my health!” Mycroft whispered harshly.

      She clucked her tongue. “Ah, well, perhaps you should not have helped my father win the election this year. Now he is of the firm belief that you are indispensable to him.”

      Mycroft’s thick legs shuffled beneath his chair. “B-But I am hungry, damnit! Miss Salisbury . . . _Anthea_ , I feel I will perish . . . y-you do not know the pain of it!”

     Finally, Sherlock strolled forwards. Miss Salisbury jolted uprights and sprang back from Mycroft. Her face flushed crimson as she hid her crop behind her back.

     “Good day, Mr. Holmes,” she said quickly.

     Sherlock nodded. “Miss.”

     He rounded the chair to a second surprise. Mycroft was not nearly as large as the last time he had seen him. In fact, he looked a bit like a deflated version of himself having lost three to four stone. He glowered up at Sherlock from under his brows. His fingers tapped on the arms of his chair.

     “Come to revel in my defeat?”

     Sherlock’s grin felt rather ungracious on his face.

     “Defeat?” he laughed and glanced at Miss Salisbury again. “It looks rather more like a victory.”

     The handsome woman chewed her lip and looked askance shyly.

     “What do you want then?” Mycroft demanded.

     “I would like to speak with you. Alone, if you do not mind, Miss Salisbury.”

      “No, not at all.”

     She dipped her head and lifted a hat from the second chair by the fire. She tucked her crop under her elbow and pinned the ornate black riding cap to her head.

     “Please ensure that Lord Mycroft does not imbibe in any sweets, Mr. Holmes,” she said as she lowered her arms again. “He can undo a week’s worth of gains in an hour if given the chance.”

      “Yes, of course,” Sherlock chuckled

     With that, Miss Salisbury swept away but not towards the room’s lone entrance. She poked at some molding on the end wall. A portion of it swung open to reveal a long, stone corridor illuminated by gas lamps. She strolled into the passage and the covert door once more closed to conceal the secret entry.

     Sherlock whistled. “I was wondering how she managed to get in here. Tsk, tsk, brother mine, the members would not look kindly upon you entertaining a woman in their club.”

     Mycroft snorted. “I had nothing to do with allowing her in here. That woman is a pest. She seems to know how to find me no matter where I try to hide.”

     Sherlock removed his hat and plunked into the chair opposite his brother who had bent over and searched for something on the floor. Just before he found the doughy pastry, Sherlock stretched out his leg and kicked it into the fire.

    “Oh! Damn! I hate you all,” Mycroft sat up with a huff.

     He adjusted his over-sized charcoal suit jacket. His hands smoothed down over his loose dove-grey waistcoat.

     Sherlock raised his brows. “I do not believe for a second that you hate Miss Salisbury.”

     Mycroft wrinkled his nose as he slunk back into his seat. “Let us change the subject . . .  now!”

     “No, no, no! I would like to assist the lady in any way I can. Her methods appear to garner results. Do I credit the whip? What, pray tell, could possibly motivate you to lose three and a half stone?”

      “Be quiet, Sherlock! I will not have you imply Miss Salisbury’s behavior has been untoward in any way. She is a fine, upstanding young woman . . . she might be a little misguided but her heart is in the right place-”

     “Her heart?” Sherlock sat forward and gaped at Mycroft. “Her heart? Good Lord, what else have you lost to Miss Salisbury besides the weight?”

      Mycroft’s lips parted and he shook his head. His chins, of which there were now only two, wagged in denial.

     “Do not be ridiculous!” His eyes narrowed. “Sh-She is just a nuisance to me, nothing more. Let us instead discuss your adventures as of late. Who is this Miss Hooper everyone is talking about?”

      Sherlock’s lips pulled taut. He pressed his fingers together under his nose as he rested his elbows on his knees.

     “She is also a nuisance of a sort,” he ground out. “Though, I believe I have a plan to rid myself of her . . . distraction. That is why I am here. I need your help.”

     Mycroft’s lips formed an upside down arc and he blinked several times.

     “You have never asked me for help before.”

     Sherlock averted his gaze to the floor. He frowned before returning his attention to Mycroft.

      “This . . . this situation is not . . . erm, ahem,” a description eluded him, “that is . . . bloody hell! Will you help me or not?”

      A cat-like grin spread across his brother’s face. He folded his hands on his lap and twitched his brows.

     “Oh, Sherlock, it would be my pleasure.”  


	12. The Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story progression, little glimmers of Sherlock's reluctant affection. Damn, this plot stuff is getting in the way of things! Be patient, my friends. More "action" is coming.

 

      Molly stubbed her toe as she hurried across the foyer to assist their manservant Gomery.

      “Ow!” She muttered as she flexed her toes in her slippers.

      “Oy, careful, Miss, one of them tiles has come loose again,” Gomery peeked around an awkward stack of what looked like garment boxes from a dressmaker.

      She glanced down at the tile which had, indeed, popped up from its mooring. She had never much cared for the forest green, smoked orange, and black geometric pattern of the tiles in her Uncle’s front hall. Her disdain was bolstered by the fact that the original installation had been rather shoddy. However, it was just one part to a dysfunctional whole. The entire entry had been an exercise in tasteless drudgery. All the woodwork and wainscoting was stained charcoal. The wallpaper was a French wide-striped pale grey and green motif. It was as if the joyless soul who selected the décor intended their melancholy to live on indefinitely. She sighed and looked back up at the elderly butler.

      “Oh, here, let me take a couple of those boxes,” Molly fussed.

      Gomery shook his head. “No, away with you. I will not have the lady of my house carrying packages.”

      “Bah, you old relic,” She chided him as she took several from him, “the real lady of this house has been dead and gone for almost two decades . . . though, perhaps she is not completely departed. I have heard about a rather vengeful spirit about town.”

      Gomery’s face blanched. Then the wispy, white hairs on his head quivered as his wrinkled lips pressed together. He jostled the leftover boxes on one arm, touched his hand to his forehead and raised his fearful brown eyes towards the ceiling as if making a silent apology to his deity.

       “Lord, but you court the anger of the man above, Miss Molly,” he whispered with a shake of his head. “Lady Stamford was a saint. You should not speak of her so.”

      Molly studied her new burden with a frown. “My grandmother was a sour old hag who made it her life’s pursuit to ensure there was as much strife in this family as possible. It would not surprise me in the least if she rose to terrorize London to alleviate her boredom in the afterlife.”

      Gomery let out a raspy sigh. “God love you, Miss, but your uncle and I should not have taken it upon ourselves to raise you after she died. We should have found you a proper governess and seen to it you were brought up gentler.”

     Molly huffed. “That kind of upbringing did not work out so well for my mother, now did it? Come, you do not really believe an army of prim governesses could have made me any different, do you? I am exactly as I ought to be. Would not you be proud of me if I was a boy, Gomery . . . even a little bit?”

     Molly held her breath a moment, suddenly a little uncertain of how he might respond. There were only a handful of whose estimations truly mattered in her mind. Gomery might be in her family’s employment and viewed as just a lowly servant by the outside world, but his was one of the few good opinions she relied upon. She contracted her toes again in her shoes as she awaited his reply.

     The old man turned pink. “Miss, you make an old bugger feel very foolish. You know I could not be more pleased with you if you were my own flesh and blood, male or otherwise,” his emphatic pronouncement echoed in the front hall.

     Molly looked away for a spell and swallowed, instantly humbled. She had jibed at him in jest but it had become something else entirely. His sincerity made her feel incredibly duplicitous.

     “Yes, well . . . there you have it,” she murmured.

     The irony of the agreement she had made with Sherlock Holmes the previous day was not lost on her. Gomery would have nothing good to say if he knew how she had bargained with her own flesh.

      “Erm, what are these packages then?” Her voice strained.

     “Ah, you should speak with your uncle,” he resumed his lumber towards the stairs, oblivious to her internal conflict, “all I know is that they are for you.”

     “Me?” She counted ten boxes between them. “What have I need for that I did not know about?”

      Gomery shrugged. “Like I said, Miss, that is a query for your uncle.”

     She fell in line with him as they climbed the stairs to her room. The boxes were artfully printed shades of pastel pinks and blues. They looked suspiciously similar to the boxes from a very expensive dressmaker in the heart of London. Once they reached her room, the packaged items were deposited on her bed.

     “Be right back, Miss,” Gomery said breathlessly, “there are a few more.”

     Molly crinkled her nose. “What? Ridiculous! Where?”

     He wagged his finger. “Nah, stay here. You have mortified me enough. I will fetch the last of them.”

     After he left her room, she flipped the lid off the first box to reveal a stunning bodice of bronze satin gown. With shaking hands, she drew the weighty garment from the box. Its voluminous skirts whooshed to the floor.

      “My word,” she whispered as she fingered the lustrous, gold pearls dripping from the top one of the short puffed sleeves overtop a shimmery, burnished lace.

      The craftsmanship of the dress was overwhelming to behold. The lace continued across the low collar above the meticulously brown and gold thread embroidery towards a cinched, bone reinforced waist. At the rear of the dress swaths of bronze and gold lace swept downwards from a gathering just below the waist. She had never beheld a more beautiful garment. She glanced at the box again in disbelief and spied a pair of satin slippers overlaid with lace to perfectly compliment the dress. She fluffed the fabric out a final time and laid the gown on her bed with reverence.

     In a flurry, she opened the remaining boxes and soon her room was decorated with a brand new wardrobe which included day dresses, evening wear, an overcoat, a proper pair of heeled boots and several slippers. Gomery returned amidst her stunned contemplation, but this time, the boxes he bore were black.

     “This is all too much,” She muttered. “Uncle Mike has lost his damn mind. This frippery will have set him back a small fortune and there is still more?”

     Not to mention, she did not deserve any of it, not even a little bit.

     Gomery nodded but then shook his head. “Those came this morning, Miss. These came separately. The card indicates they are from Mr. Holmes.”

       “What? Are you positive?”

      “Yes, Miss,” he wheezed, “now, excuse me. Your uncle has requested tea. Visitors or some rubbish.”

      Molly's brow furrowed. Visitors! That would preclude her intention of lambasting her uncle over his purchases. She wondered if he planned them as a shield.

      “Thank you for bringing this all up, Gomery.”

      Her old servant dipped his head and hobbled off. The black boxes sat starkly atop her bed amongst the richness of her new clothing rather ominously. She stepped forward. Her hand hovered over the closest one for a few seconds. Even though she had pledged herself to Holmes, it had not felt irreversible because she had accepted nothing from him . . . yet. Whatever was contained within these packages was the first lick of flames she could feel behind her as she crossed that deep moral gulf that separated them. Heat blossomed in her chest and spread upwards over her face and through her temples. What would she uncover?

     Finally, she sucked in a breath, opened the box and pulled out . . . dark grey men’s trousers. Her brow twisted on her face. She turned the box over. It contained a white shirt, silver waistcoat, blazer and even what looked like men’s undergarments. She rifled through the other boxes in confusion. Then, in the last package, she encountered a ginger wig and a faux mustache. She held up the disguise, light glinted off the ruddy hairs. She squeaked and dropped them back onto the bed when she realized it was real hair.

     “Oh! Disgusting!” She shook her hand as if a bug had landed.

     She stared ruefully at the men’s attire as well as the wig and mustache. At first, she thought there had to be some kind of mix-up but the articles were all petite as if meant for a male child. The mock coif and whiskers told another story, though. She had to conclude she was meant to wear these items. There were no instructions, however. Peculiar did not even begin to describe her situation. Her uncle had bought her enough finery to outfit a high-born lady and Holmes had decided she should present herself as a man. 

      A knock sounded at her rear. Molly backed away from the conflicting apparel and then turned to answer the door.

     “Miss,” Gomery tried to peek around her, “your uncle requests your presence.”

      Molly squeezed out through her partially open door and snapped it shut before he could see anything more. How could she even begin to explain something she did not even understand herself yet?

     “Yes, of course,” she rushed out, “shall we?”

     She skipped around Gomery and flew down the stairs, anxious to be away from his inquisitive gaze. She smoothed a couple hairs back from her flushed face as she hurried across the front hall. Just before she stepped into the parlor, her toe caught the loose tile from earlier.

     “Whoop!” She pitched forward and stumbled through the entry and crashed into something very solid.

     “What the-!”

     Molly’s impact threw the large form of Sherlock Holmes standing between Dr. Watson and an unknown female, off balance. He tripped back and twisted to catch her but they fell all the same. Holmes hit the floor first on his backside and tumbled back. Somehow, as Molly tried to impede her own ungracious flop, she once again jammed his groin region with her knee. They ended up a heap on the floor with her splayed on top of him as he grimaced and panted through the pain.

     “Holmes,” she whispered as she raised herself up on his muscular chest, “blast! Holmes? Are you alright?”

     Above them, a female’s laughter sounded like the tinkling of bells. Dr. Watson, her uncle, Gomery and even Greg Lestrade could be heard enquiring after their health but they all were distant, hollow voices. She was singularly focused on the man beneath her small form.

     “Holmes?”

     He frowned at her, but his attention seemed equally transfixed on her face. “I am fine, Hooper.”

     His eyes traversed back and forth as he surveyed her expression. A wrinkle between his brows deepened. His fingers lifted towards her face as if to touch it but hesitated.

     “Are you injured?” He asked gruffly.

     She gulped and gave a small shake of her head. “Not at all.”

     “Have I offended you somehow?”

     She shook her head. “N-No, of course not. Why would you even ask?”

     “Because you seem to have remarkably consistent aim which I am beginning to suspect is deliberate.”

     Another peel of female laughter penetrated their bubble. The soft look in Holmes’ eyes shuttered and his hand dropped. Molly rolled off him and scrambled to her feet, avoiding his offered hand. Damn, but she was clumsy as of late! She could not seem to stay upright. When she looked around, she realized she was at the center of a ring of spectators each with their own expressions. Her uncle smiled inanely as if he were enjoying a secret joke. Lestrade’s nose was scrunched, his lips turned downwards and his arms were crossed defensively. Dr. Watson rolled his mustache between his fingers as he analyzed her with a contemplative gaze. The blonde woman who hovered at his elbow in a navy, masculine-inspired shirtwaist over dark blue and black tartan skirts wiped tears from her eyes as she tried to tamp down her mirth.

     “Miss Hooper,” Dr. Watson bobbed his head, “allow me to introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Mary Watson.”

     Molly smiled shyly as the woman peeled off a glove and extended her hand. “Delighted!”

     Mrs. Watson had a rather joyful disposition. Her bright smile lit every corner of her face. However, there was a shrewdness in her blue eyes that bespoke of a formidable intelligence. Molly’s hand was grasped in a firm shake. She had no doubt that Mary was also blessed with an abundance of confidence.

     “Pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Watson.”

      “Oh, do refer to me as Mary! I cannot stand formal address.”      

      “Yes, okay, Mary. You can call me Molly then, if you like.”

      Her pale brows twitched up. “Or Hooper?”

      Heat flashed through Molly’s face. “Molly will suffice.”

     “Oh, poo! You know, I would be perfectly content to have you address me as Watson were there not more than one of us.”

      A groan infiltrated their exchange.

     “My God, are we quite finished with the introductions?” Holmes carped. “Might I ask we also skip the requisite compliments and musing about the weather and proceed directly to the point of this gathering?”

     Mary blinked several times. “But the weather has been so unpredictable lately! How about that storm yesterday? That was quite unexpected.”

     Molly tucked in her lips and glanced at Holmes from between wayward locks which had sprung loose during their tumble. He looked perfectly in order, as usual. His brown tweed, Glencheck patterned suit with its slim fitting tan waistcoat did not sport a single wrinkle. His hair remained slicked in place. As if he could feel her gaze, his pale eyes flicked briefly to hers before they slid away. Dr. Watson interrupted as if exasperated as well.

     “Yes, Holmes, you are right. We could spend all day on idle chatter. Shall we sit?”

     The group settled into the parlor. Molly quickly learned that a séance had been planned by the matriarch of the house where she had examined her very first young murder victim outside the morgue. Holmes was convinced one of her daughters was involved in the murder and possibly the specter of the bride about London. He hoped the séance, as ridiculous a notion it was, might produce some clues.

       “A question,” Molly said after a few minutes, “am I correct in assuming that you expect me to attend this event?”

      She had many other questions, of course. She still needed an explanation from him for the men's attire but preferred to save those enquires for a private conversation.

      Holmes nodded slowly above his steepled fingers. “Yes.”

      Everyone else quieted.

     “Why?”

     He leaned forward. “The Clairmont girls are . . . difficult to read. I had hoped some additional female perspective would prove useful.”

     “Useful?” Molly’s lips inverted. “Hmm, I do not know. That sounds like a step backwards.”

     She could not resist the barb. Lestrade snorted a laugh from where he sat to the left of the detective. Watson peeked at Mary with large eyes. Holmes’ lids twitched. Molly’s belly fluttered. Somehow, she knew she would be in trouble for her impertinence later. His head cocked to one side and his eyes narrowed.

     “Forgive me,” he returned pointedly, “I have great need of you tonight. One might say, you are . . . _indispensable_.”

     


	13. The Spectacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot, plot, plot! Come on, who couldn't resist a seance in Chapter 13? Ok, I know the smut has been on hiatus but it is on its way :) Just a bit more story, m'kay? For those who like adventure . . . I hope you like Sally, who I missed in the TAB special.

   

     Molly found there was something rather enjoyable about being part of a large group who all had their own ideas about how they should organize. With so many strong opinions, a simple task such as arranging transport for a short journey across town became a bit of a chaotic mess. For instance, how many hackney carriages were required for six adults? It was Dr. Watson’s contention that they hail one of the larger coaches as his thought was that they still had matters to discuss. Holmes balked at this idea, insisting that he would not survive the journey. Two or three hacks were required in his opinion.

     “It is twenty minutes, at most!” Dr. Watson’s voice rose above the din of people preparing to depart in the front hall.

     “Twenty minutes too long packed together like canned meat and about as palatable . . . if not less so,” Holmes muttered as he buttoned his coat.

     Lestrade winked at Molly as he helped her into her coat. “That does not sound so bad to me, actually.”

     Molly tucked in her bottom lip when Holmes’ chin jerked up. Greg was completely oblivious to his stormy expression. Holmes’ gaze flicked in her direction as if slightly confused and irritated, of course, as to why Greg still solicited her attention. She looked away guiltily. She had meant to explain to Greg that she was no longer interested in his courtship but had lost her courage to do so the previous day in the last few moments of their outing. She caught some movement from the corner of her eye. When she looked aloft, she noticed her uncle wandering away from the hall.

     “Excuse me,” she hurried after him.

     “Uncle,” she grabbed his elbow in the corridor just around the stairs, “are you not coming?”

     He sighed. “No, my girl, it does not interest me in the least.”

     Molly felt at a crossroads and unsure of how to move forwards. Melancholy gripped her soul. She knew change was inevitable buy the little girl in her desperately wanted her father’s approval to grow up. For all intents and purposes, her uncle was her father. She needed for him to approve of her decisions.

     “Uncle . . .”

     She twiddled her fingers.

     “Ah, go and have fun, Molly, my dear,” he took her hands and squeezed them gently, “you have not needed my support for quite some time.”

     She sniffed and looked up at him through bleary eyes. “I have . . . and will always need you, Uncle.”

     He shook her hands once. “Then I will endeavor to be ever here for you, my child. Do not doubt that for an instant.”

      Her reserves of self-deprecation were running low with his and Gomery's unconditional love. In fact, she was at risk of an inflated head between the two of them. Her whole life she thought she was a burden. They had never said as much, but she had projected that upon them. 

      “I am quite cross with you, you know,” she wiped away a tear.

      Her uncle frowned. “Is it that important I tag along tonight?”

      She gave her head a shake. “No, no! I am just letting you know I mean to have a word with you about the expensive silks and satins decorating my room.”

     He laughed. “Oh, that! Yes, well, I will save you the trouble. Those are long overdue, my girl. I will not have people look down on you. You are the equal of anyone of my acquaintance and they should be reminded of that fact when they behold you.”

     “Oh, Uncle!” She hugged him, her eyes scalded with tears.

     He patted her back. “Go on! Get. Do not even think of returning at a reasonable hour.”

     She reluctantly let him go. “A-Are you really encouraging me to be an outcast?”

     He smirked. “Outcast? That is not what I have observed lately. In fact, you have more admirers than ever.”

     Molly did not entirely agree with him on that score. However, they said their goodbyes and she returned to the front hall feeling a bit lighter. She surveyed the scene a moment before rejoining her group. Despite the squabbling and jockeying for command, she could not imagine a better faction of society in which to belong. She just wished that her future was more certain. Her association with Holmes and his entourage still felt tenuous at best, but she was going to make the most of it.

     “Are we decided yet?” She asked as she plucked one of her new hats from where she had left it on the hall tree. “Five hacks, is it? One for each personality?”

     Mary smiled with utter delight. “Better make it a coach for Sherlock! A regular hack might crush under the weight of his largesse alone.”

     Holmes tipped a top hat onto his head and raised a single brow. He opened his mouth to reply but then seemed to decide he no longer cared to respond and stalked towards the door.

         *   *   *

     Two hours later, Molly found herself in a dimly lit formal dining room decorated with all manner of gothic artifice. A swath of black lace covered the large mirror above the mantel. Black candles littered every surface around the periphery of the room as if a congregation had swept in and created a temporary shrine. Incense burned in a multitude of pots and lingered in the air as a pungent haze. Even the dining table was covered with a black, brocade sheet. It was a bizarre scene but also a bit thrilling. She had no idea what to expect of this seance. 

     As she surveyed the space, something slipped by her and splashed to the floor. She looked up from where she was seated next to the room’s massive hearth at a candle which had burned to a short stub. She and her group had been waiting in that room so long for the infamous Sally Donovan that the wax began to drip over the ledge. Molly scooted her chair sideways to avoid the mess and bumped into Mary.

     “Oh, sorry!” She whispered.

     “It is quite alright, Molly,” Mary replied. “I think everyone is getting a wee bit antsy. Erm, except for John.”

     Molly glanced to where Dr. Watson dozed off at the table. She covered her mouth to suppress a snort of laughter. His head had fallen back and he snored at the ceiling. A dribble of drool clung to one of the curls on his mustache. To his left at the end of the table, Holmes tugged at one of the loose threads on the tablecloth absentmindedly.

     “The stage is set,” he muttered to no one of in particular and then looked up. “When is this confounded curtain rising?!”

     Mrs. Clairmont jumped in her seat at his aggravated bark. Then, she rapidly cooled herself with the fluttering of a hand-painted paper fan. Her daughters, flanked on either side of her and one directly across the table barely reacted. The oldest, Henrietta, was content to continue the examination of her nails. The youngest leaned on her elbow on the table. Mr. Clarimont checked his watch next to his daughter.

     “Miss Donovan was not specific on her arrival,” Mrs. Clairmont sighed. “She said she would be here exactly when it was required.”

     Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “Have you given her free license to dictate this entire event then?”

     The matriarch of the household bristled. “I have given her leave to conduct herself however she must to achieve the desired outcome.”

      “And what, pray tell, is that?”

     For a split second, Mrs. Clairmont seemed to have a flicker of awareness but then shrugged and waved her fingers dismissively. Molly blinked a few times at the specter of her digits undulating in the air. They seemed to go in and out of focus. She shook her head. She felt a bit off. Perhaps she was tired. A faint fog clouded her mind.

     Mary yawned. “Mm, Lord, this is taking forever! How long have we been here? I could take a nap.”

     Molly peered all the way over to where Greg Lestrade leaned against the far wall. His arms were crossed and his chin nearly resting on his chest. He, like everyone else, seemed nearly ready to turn in for the night. It was at that moment that the door slammed open next to the Inspector which caused him to jump sideways. Dr. Watson awoke with a start and nearly fell from his chair. At first, Molly couldn’t see who was keen to make such a dramatic entrance, but in the darkness of the hall outside the room, something moved. Then, voluminous dark skirts appeared and the black-clad figure of a woman struck a silhouette in the door frame. What followed was the most unnatural of movements as she jerked forward and shifted fully into view.

     The woman’s bright eyes rimmed in thick, dark shadow were one of the first details that came into sharp focus. They darted back and forth, taking in the room above warm, brown skin and a smattering of freckles. For the most fleeting of instants, Molly was the subject of an intent, dark gaze. Full lips painted the colour of blue-black Corvina grapes plumped momentarily, then a smile spread across the woman’s face and she hiked her brows. Her gaze quickly caressed the rest of the room’s occupants before landing on Sherlock Holmes.

     “Ooh, a proper skeptic in our midst,” she remarked. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, how are you this fine night?”

      Molly leaned forward in her seat. She had never heard a creole accent before and it was a bit mesmerizing, like listening to a dance of words.

     “Bored,” Holmes replied as he leaned back.

      If the woman was annoyed at all by his retort, she did not show it. “Oh, yes, so tedious, mm? Especially when there are other things you would rather be doing?”

      Like the snap of a tea towel, her eyes flicked to Molly again. Molly looked quickly to Holmes at the opposite end from her as he adjusted himself in his seat. Dr. Watson blinked several times in confusion with a question on his lips.

     “Miss Donovan,” Mrs. Clairmont cut in, “you see, we are all rather anxious to get started.”

     “Of course, but you appreciate that timing is everything in these matters, no? The spirits must be comfortable. I cannot persuade them to do anything they do not wish to do.”

     Holmes laughed sardonically. “Can you not? I thought that was why you were hired.”

     Miss Donovan smirked and jauntily stepped forwards to claim her seat at the head of the table. She raised a hand, wiggled her fingers and two ladies dressed in black appeared on either side of her like graceful birds. On her left a taller woman of possibly Tibetan or Mongolian descent with ginger hair carried a flask. To her right, a smaller, Indian woman with raven tresses that fell in soft waves to her waist and a signature red Bindi on her forehead set a pile of folded black cloth on the table.

     “Come, all, be seated!” Miss Donovan commanded. “I need every chair occupied. The hour winds down. Our bride passes through the ether at this time. We must draw her out.”

      Lestrade lurched off the wall and hurried to take a seat. His eyes were glued to the enigmatic figure of Miss Donovan as he plopped down, he stared at her as if he had encountered a deity. Mary took a seat next to her husband while Molly slipped into the last vacant chair on the other side of Holmes. Miss Donovan’s smaller, Hindi assistant poured liquid from the flask into a metal bowl in the middle of the table and with a flourish, struck a match and tossed it in. With a pop and a poof, flames sprung up from the liquid and continued to burn a sickly blue.

     “Quiet now, everyone,” Miss Donovan closed her eyes and held up her hands. “Quiet now, she comes!”

      “Good Lord,” Holmes muttered. “This is ridiculous.”

      Miss Donovan’s eyes flashed open. “I said, quiet!”

     A hiss sliced the air somewhere behind Molly, followed by a sputtering poof. Then, it seemed every other candle in the room flashed and flared and flamed out with loud pops until the only light remaining was from the bowl of burning liquid. Someone let out a surprised squeal. Molly attempted to glean who had contributed to the fracas but the faces around the table fluttered in and out of focus. Again, her vision wavered.

     Miss Donovan and her assistants began to chant in a different language. Their voices filled the room. Underneath it all, the beginnings of a bone-chilling moan formed. A plaintive, hollow wail grew louder and louder until the one could barely discern the women’s intonations. There seemed to be no source from which the cry originated, it just existed all around them. Molly glanced fretfully at Holmes. He studied the scene with a wary glint in his slanted eyes but did not seem as concerned as everyone else watching the spectacle unfold. Mary was completely delighted. Both Dr. Watson and Greg’s mouths were hanging open. The entire Clairmont family appeared horrified.

     “She is almost here,” Miss Donovan exclaimed with a fierce determination. “I must cross to the other side to bring her forth!”

     Unexpectedly, Miss Donovan jumped up from her chair and stomped across the table, rattling the candlesticks and bowl of blue flame. She stopped directly in front of Holmes who had to crane his neck up to keep eye contact, then slunk to her knees. Her hands gesticulated towards him like snakes rising up to strike.

     “Our bride is most anxious to meet you, Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured.

     Suddenly, her assistants swung the black cloth up and shrouded Miss Donovan. She rose up like smoke curling towards the ceiling underneath the draped fabric. For a moment, her swaddled body towered above them all and then, in an instant, the sheets collapsed to a heap on the table. Someone screamed. A whoosh of hair hit Molly’s face just as the room plunged into darkness and she realized Miss Donovan had disappeared before their very eyes. Molly's whole body stiffened as her muscles tightened in fear. Goose bumps prickled every inch of her exposed flesh. In the dark, the table jostled, a chair scraped across the boards and people shuffled around as if engaged in small skirmishes. Then the floor shook as something very large fell. Molly heard what sounded like a more urgent struggle and a man grunting. Her first thought was for her detective.

     “Holmes,” she rasped as she pushed aside her chair and felt her way towards him, “Holmes!”

     “Stay where you are, Hooper,” he responded quietly before raising his voice. “Everyone, stay where you are!”

     She froze just as a light flickered and once again, the bowl in the center of the table was alight with blue flames. Everyone in the room stilled in a ring of ghostly pale faces with mouths agape as they gazed upon a lone figure dressed entirely in white seemingly floating just above the table.

      “My God!” Dr. Watson whispered as he turned a horrified gaze to the phantom. “It cannot be true.”

     Mrs. Clairmont shrieked and collapsed. Her daughters rushed to tend to her. Soundlessly, the apparition turned, drifted down off the table and moved swiftly towards the open door at the far end of the room. Molly’s stomach lurched at the sight. Her light-headedness from earlier began to completely cloud her mind. Her vision blurred and her eyes twitched and switched as she tried to watch the figure retreat.

     “Lestrade! Watson!” Holmes shouted as he pushed his chair back and scrambled over the table. “Do not let her leave!”

     Molly moved back and out of his way as he rushed to follow the bride. However, her head swam violently like the sloshing of storm waves and black spots erupted before her eyes. Suddenly, her strength disintegrated within her as if her core were a pile of sand being blown away by a relentless wind. She shrank to the floor and ended up on her side struggling to stay alert. Vomit rose in her throat as another wave of nausea hit.

     “Hooper?” A deep voiced called from above.

      “Holmes,” she replied weakly as he kneeled beside her. “I am s-sorry. I feel . . . ill.”

      She felt a hand on her head, then she was hoisted up in strong arms against a hard chest.

     “Forgive me, I have just now realized what is happening,” he muttered. “Stay with me. I will get you out of here.”

     Molly closed her eyes and melted against his robust form. He shook her gently as he made his way through the room.

     “Stay with me,” he whispered raggedly. “That is an order, Hooper.”

     “H-How many times,” she swallowed, “d-do I have remind you that I am n-not yours to command?”

     Holmes' arms constricted. “Until it is factual.”


	14. The Casualty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I sort of promised you a bit of Aurthur Conan Doyle-like mystery. Here goes nothing . . .

        Molly's head still felt full of cobwebs as Holmes set her down in a parlor chair well away from the Clairmont's fume-filled dining room. Her vision swirled as she watched her dark-haired detective whip apart a pair of heavy drapes and slam open a creaky window. An instant later, he dragged her chair noisily across the floor until she was positioned next to the opening. Her first few inhalations of sweet, clean air were an enormous relief. She closed her eyes and leaned against the high-backed, winged seat as her fog began to clear and her stomach settled.

     "Huh?!"

     She jumped when fingers brushed a hair from her face. When she opened her eyes, Holmes kneeled directly in front of her chair. He retracted his hand with a halting uncertainty. She blinked several times as his impossibly handsome face came into sharp focus in the blue-white moonlight. His high cheeks were smooth as honed alabaster. His dark brows drew together in a slight frown. Her flesh warmed as his slightly constricted eyes caressed her features.

      "Better?" His bow lips twitched.

      She nodded. "Y-Yes, thank-you."

      "Are you nauseas at all? Do you think you will be ill?"

      Molly shook her head. Her stomach felt a bit queasy but significantly less so than it had during the séance. She looked down as she felt the whisper of movement over her lap. She watched his large hand with its elegant digits slide over her knuckles and then gingerly flip her wrist up. With his opposite hand, he pressed two fingers lightly against her pulse. The feather touch set every fibre in her being quivering like a string plucked on a cello.

       "Your heart beat is irregular," he murmured.

       She pressed her lips together. Yes, yes it was irregular but it had little to do with the happenings in the next room.

       His eyes flicked up again. "Your pupils are quite dilated as well."

       Molly knew her face must be flaming. "I-ah-. . . erm, it is dark in here, that's all. I am perfectly well. I just needed fresh air. The incense was too pungent, I think."

       The corner of Holmes' nose jumped. "It is not just pungent, it is most likely laced with some sort of chemical intoxicant. Forgive me Hooper, I must ensure the evacuation of that room before anyone else succumbs. I will return momentarily."

      "Of course!"

      Holmes shot up, backed away, then turned and strode from the room. She heard a brief exchange between him and Mary and then the warbling voice of Mrs. Clairmont from the direction of the dining room. However, as the conversation went on, the matriarch's tone became frantic and screams ensued. The tremoring timber of her wrenching wails caused a prickling of fear up Molly's spine. This wasn't just a woman disturbed by the theatrics of her misguided séance, something terrible had happened. Molly jumped to her feet. She still felt a bit unsteady but she was compelled to ascertain for herself what had transpired. She made it to the entry of the dining room just as Greg and Dr. Watson rounded the corner from down the hall.

      "What the bloody hell is going on?" Dr. Watson panted.

      She shrugged anxiously. "I-I do not know . . ."

      The three of them piled into the room again. The haze of the incense had long since cleared. Mary stood near an open window pink-faced and fanning herself.  The overhead electric light fixture with its multitude of incandescent bulbs brightly illuminated the scene. Molly slapped a hand over her mouth.

     “Good God!” She gasped.

     Mr. Clairmont laid on the floor where his chair had fallen backwards from the table with his arms splayed out. A shiny, almost black puddle collected beneath him in sickening contrast to the honey oak stain of the floorboards. An intricately carved, antler handle stuck up from his chest above his heart. Molly wasn't sure if the instrument was a knife or a letter opener but its aim had been true. Blood wicked from the wound into his white shirt and beneath his black waistcoat.

      "Do something!" Mrs. Clairmont screeched as her daughters sidled up to her in shock. "Somebody do something!"

      Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade rushed to join Holmes who was already crouched down as he assessed the man's airway but Molly could see that Mr. Clairmont’s skin was not just ashen, but a dull grey. She recognized the shade very well. Mary bumped up against her as she peered over Molly’s shoulder.

     “Oh, bloody hell, how did I not notice that?” She whispered.

     Holmes glanced up at them with rounded eyes full of disbelief. Molly clenched her teeth and shook her head and mouthed the words, ‘he is gone’. The detective grimaced and dipped his chin in silent agreement. He then turned his gaze upwards to Mrs. Clairmont and her daughters. The two girls seemed to instantly grasp the situation. Their eyes filled with tears. The older girl buried her face in her hands.

      "Why are you not helping him? Why is no one doing anything?" Mrs. Clairmont demanded.

      "C-Come away, Mum," the younger girl cried as she grabbed her arm.

       "What? Are you mad? Your father is injured. Somebody wake him! Robert? Robert?!" 

      The next few moments were chaotic as, at long last, the horrific truth dawned on Mrs. Clairmont. Her wild eyes turned to Holmes. One could almost see the fracturing of her soul withing.

     "You promised!" She shrieked. "You promised to protect him . . . to protect us all!"

     Holmes appeared stricken. His mouth parted with distress and he shook his head weakly. What little composure Mrs. Clairmont had left collapsed like an infested timber giving way. She howled and tried to fight her way to her husband but was restrained and then hauled off by Lestrade as well as her butler and a footman who had been drawn by the commotion. Her devastated daughters followed with their arms around one another. Molly’s eyes stung at the look of pain on their faces. She knew only too well what it was like to lose someone so important and have the world wash away beneath one’s feet. She dashed away a tear.

     Mary squeezed her shoulders. “How horrid this is! Was this Donovan woman the culprit, you think?”

     Holmes’ head jerked up from where he had collapsed beside the motionless form of Mr. Clairmont. “Thank you, Mrs. Watson, whatever would we do without your pointing out the blatantly obvious?”

     Mary pouted and folded her arms over her chest. “John! Is he mocking me?”

     Dr. Watson glanced at Holmes with large eyes, shrugged and resumed his assessment. “Holmes does not need to mock, my dear. This situation is already absurd in the extreme.”

     “On that we can agree,” Holmes mumbled in return. "I take it you were not successful in intercepting the bride?"

     "Sorry, Holmes, they are all gone, the assistants and everything. It is like they were never here."

      The detective closed his eyes and shook his head as if to shake away a spinning twister. It took him a few moments to steady himself. Then, he seemed to think of something and looked up at Molly. His eyes were filled with silent contemplation. He frowned.

     “Hooper, you appear ready to keel over again. Mrs. Watson, would you please kindly escort her back to the parlor?”

     Molly shook her head. “No, that will not be necessary.”

     Mary snickered and held up her hands. “The lady has spoken.”

    Holmes rose from the floor. He cocked his head to one side with a deep glower from temple to temple, then adjusted his waistcoat. He drew in a breath and expelled it slowly.

    “It is best if you retire from this room at once,” his voice was tight. “You have both been exposed to some form of narcotic given off by the incense.”

     “So have you and Dr. Watson!” Mary interjected.

     Holmes’ brow arched. “Yes, but as men we are naturally more resistant to its poisonous effects.”

     Mary’s lips fell open in disbelief. She crossed her arms. Molly’s lips pursed. The pair of them squared off against Holmes with similar expressions of disapproval.

     “Christ, I am going to hear about this later,” Dr. Watson muttered under his breath and went back to examining Mr. Clairmont.

     “Oh, really, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” Mary’s voice was a bit pitchy.

     Dr. Watson peered up from the body anxiously. His eyes were round. He kept glancing back and forth between his wife and Holmes. Finally he cleared his throat.

     “Ahem, . . . mass, Holmes . . . mass,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

     Holmes blinked at Watson and then lifted his chin. “Well, yes, Watson is right. We men are considerably heavier and thus, the drugs are much more diluted in our system. Of course, additionally, we are stronger in every other sense of the word . . .”

     “Holmes!” Watson groaned.

     “. . . especially when you consider a man’s mental fortitude-”

     “Holmes, shut it.”

     “. . . and our superior emotional control-“

     Watson’s hand slapped across his forehead. “Oh, my, God, Holmes. Just stop.”

     “Oh, no! Do go on,” Mary exclaimed, “for I surely need a lesson in the courage of men!”

     The large detective pressed his lips together. His nose wrinkled. He appeared as if he wanted to argue some more but also knew that would probably prove futile. Molly sucked in her bottom lip to prevent from grinning, as absurd as it was to do so in that moment. She had never seen Holmes look . . . indecisive. He regrouped quickly. She clenched her teeth when his stare hardened. Somehow, she knew he was about to say something awkward.

      “Do you know what you problem is, Mrs. Watson?”

      The room fell silent. Mary waltzed forward and swept her arm in a wide arc.

      “Enlighten me, Mr. Holmes.”

      “You do not really believe women are equal to men,” he grumbled. “You are convinced women are superior to men.”

      At first Molly thought Mary might become angry but instead, she grinned and a frothy laughter bubbled from her lips. Dr. Watson stood up at long last to bring an end to the bickering.

      “Holmes, perhaps you should allow Miss Hooper to examine the body. You did invite her and my wife here for their insight, did you not? Though I am not sure what use it is for any of us to speculate when we already know who the culprit is-”

       “We do?”

       “Since when?”

       “Oh?”

       Dr. Watson appeared to be caught off guard by the trio of responses. “I-It was the ghost. You all saw her . . . the bride, I mean!”

       Holmes rolled his eyes towards Molly. “Hooper, I rescind my earlier recommendation that you leave as it has become apparent the irrationality of opinion in this room would be lopsided without you.”

      Molly nodded.  Her feet felt a bit leaden though as she shuffled forward. Holmes stepped quickly to her side and offered her a hand as she clutched her skirts and kneeled down. There wasn’t much more to assess of their dead man. Upon closer inspection, she could see that Mr. Clairmont had been stabbed with a letter opener.

     “Odd,” she murmured and tried to put out of her mind that this man had been alive quite recently.

     Holmes crouched to her right. “What is it?”

     “I do not think it was the bride who killed Mr. Clairmont, be she a phantom or otherwise.”

     Molly feigned a stabbing motion as if subconsciously reinforcing her assertion. “There is a slight tilt of the opener’s handle towards his face. This is an awkward angle to achieve if one is above the victim on the table. No, I think that the killer stood behind him and I have no doubt that the blow was from a left-handed person.”

       Holmes’ lips twitched in a flash of a smile. His eyes flared with excitement.

      “Yes, the angle is ever so slightly downwards and skewed leftwards,” he leaned forwards, their heads almost touched as he swirled a long finger just off the top of the handle, “do you see also how this handle is irregularly carved, almost in the shape of a ‘D’? It would have been most comfortably held in one’s left hand at this particular rotation.”

      “Ooh, yes, oh and look,” Molly breathed as she tugged Mr. Clairmont’s shirt to reveal his flesh, “there is a slight tear to the wound in a vertical trajectory which means . . .”

      Holmes completed her thought. “That the killer pulled him to make it look as if a forwards blow knocked him back!”

      Next thing Molly knew, she was on her feet with her hands held tightly by Holmes. He shook them excitedly. His eyes shone with admiration. The rest of the world barely registered within their sphere. Her pulse pattered wildly in her throat. She knew then why he chose to be a consulting detective. This kind of discovery was addictive.

      “Clever girl,” he whispered absentmindedly. “We have almost certainly narrowed the killer down to one of the Clairmont women. They are all left handed . . .”

       Molly shook her head in disagreement. “Not necessarily. Did you not notice the way Miss Donovan’s smaller assistant wielded the pitcher of oil? She was also left handed, ooh, as is Inspector Lestrade!”

       Holmes’ eyes constricted and his lips drew together as if impressed. “You were paying attention.”

       Someone cleared their throat and popped their bubble. Greg had returned just at that moment.

       “Erm, yes, I am left-handed but you can eliminate me as a suspect straight away,” he said gruffly.

       Holmes blinked and frowned down at Molly’s hands. Then he shook his head and released them quickly. He stepped back and spun towards Lestrade. His movement was jaunty as if he were discombobulated. He gestured emphatically at the Inspector.

       “Theoretically, we cannot discount you since it was pitch black and no one witnessed who delivered the fatal blow.”

        Greg’s mouth hung open. “Then take my word for it.”

       Holmes shrugged. “That is something the killer would likely say. Your word is not incontrovertible evidence.”

       Molly heard Mary laugh and Dr. Watson mumble something unintelligible. She glanced at the pair of them. Watson shook his head at the cieling while Mary winked.

       “I did not kill this man!” Greg exclaimed.

     Holmes waved his hand at him. “Yes, yes, yes, I know this but-”

     “No, buts, Sherlock Holmes!” Greg pointed his finger. “You know, cold reasoning can only take you so far in deducing some crimes, at some point you must use your heart.”

     Holmes sneered. “I would never do anything so nonsensical.”

     Again, Mary snorted, peeked sideways at Molly and raised her brows. “No, of course, Mr. Holmes. To believe otherwise, we would surely first need to see evidence you possessed a heart.”


	15. The Abandon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am kind of cruel. So sorry!

      Across the coach from where Molly sat, Holmes twirled some incense he had swiped from the Clairmont residence between his fingers. Despite the tight wrinkle between his eyes as he stared down at the spinning stick, he was otherwise settled into his seat. His right ankle rested atop his left knee in a relaxed pose. His coat and blazer were unbuttoned and loosely parted to reveal his strong torso evident even beneath the layers of garb. Before she could look away, his eyes flicked up and she was ensnared.

      “Ask your question,” his deep voice seemed to increase the pressure in the cab.

      She swallowed. He had the ability to leave her breathless with a lone, penetrating glance.

     “Wh-Which one?”

      His eyes constricted dangerously. “The most pressing, of course.”

      Molly smoothed her hands over her lap. Just moments ago, they had dropped the Watsons at their front door. Lestrade before that. The night had been hectic. Scotland Yard's finest had dealt with Mr.Clairmont. He awaited a further examination the next day by her Uncle. The Clairmont women were told to remain at home. Everything was at odd ends. She should be exhausted but she had a strange energy. She and Holmes were, once again, alone in a carriage. However, Holmes had remained immersed in a bottomless pool of his own thoughts. She felt her belly quiver with insecurity. Perhaps his interest had waned. Perhaps all he had needed was a good mystery to dissipate whatever curiosity she held for him. She could not deny that she had hoped for that in some part, thinking it would be better for both of them, but her stomach churned with disappointment at that possibility.

     She cleared her throat. “Wh-Where do w-we go from here?”

     His fingers stilled and the rotation of the incense stopped. “Is that a logistical or a metaphorical enquiry?”

      Heat flashed over her face. Truthfully, she was not sure.

     “Erm, um, that is . . . I was just wondering . . .”

      The harder she tried to calm herself, the hotter her flesh burned. He was not helping a wit! In the dim expanse of the hired coach, his face may as well have been one of the impassive marble busts he so resembled. She could not gauge his thoughts at all.

      “Metaphorical then?” He murmured, the shadows cast deep grooves in his brow.

     Molly rubbed her fingers together on her lap. Words refused to form on her lips. Her intestines writhed like a den of snakes. As if to add insult to injury, the carriage pitched and bounced over a rut in the road. She choked back a bit of nervy bile.

     “Hooper,” Holmes languidly uncrossed his legs and leaned towards her, “I have every intention of conveying you home this evening. So, you may put yourself at ease. We struck a bargain, remember? I promised you a life to lead. I have not yet delivered on my end of the arrangement so forgive me if I appear disinterested. I am, in fact, attempting to be a gentleman.”

     Molly touched her hands to her cheeks and cast her eyes to her feet. She was well past mortified.

    “Unless . . . you do not want me to be?” His deep voice vibrated her to her toes.

    She raised her eyes skittishly, alternately pausing until at last, she met his pointed stare. Her breaths quickened. He was no longer relaxed. He looked like a racing steed about to spring from his paddock.

     “I – ah, . . .  h-have you found a solution?” Her voice was small.

     His cheek jumped. “Yes.”

     “I assume the menswear factors into that a-and n-not, erm, the other p-part,” she said huskily.

     He shook his head slowly. “I have no desire to see you attired in men’s clothing, Hooper. In fact, I do not desire you to wear anything at all.”

     Her breath hitched. Sensation flooded her loins. The promise in his voice was enough to excite the secret place between her legs.

     “Hah, o-oh.”

     An awkward silence ensued until she gathered her courage again.

     “What are those suits meant to achieve?” She probed, too shy to offer an appropriately mischievous rebuttal.

     “I am not going to tell you that until you are outfitted in one and I have brought you where you need to be. I do not want you to lose your nerve.”

      Her nose wrinkled. She was excited at the prospect of an adventure but a little wary of his scheme. She could not fault his logic, though. She could not imagine a willingness to participate in anything requiring a man’s getup. He was probably right to withhold that information.

     “Is this appointment already set then?”

     He tapped the pads of his fingers together. “Yes, and I would look quite foolish if you were not to show.”

     Molly’s hands shook as she formulated her next sentence. The evening’s events had rearranged her priorities. Life was more fragile than she ever imagined, and opportunities easily stolen away by the ill will of others. It was in the fog of her altered reality as Holmes had cradled and carried her to safety that her thoughts had clarified. She did not want to wait for an indeterminate future. Holmes had been right about her request. She had asked the impossible. No one could secure her future but herself.

     “Um, well . . . I would say that you have made good on your promises, Holmes. It is my turn to honor my commitments . . . “

      His nostrils expanded as he sucked in an inhalation. A quick skitter of surprise and doubt traversed his features. His lips tremored and opened. Then he sat up.

      “Hooper, I must tell you . . . your reciprocation is no longer required. Y-You can forget your obligations this instant. I . . . I will give you what you want and you do not need to be indebted to me. I made an abhorrent bargain to salvage my pride. I release you from this foolishness . . .”

       Her chin went back. She squared her shoulders. The quivering in her fingers quelled.

      “Oh, I do not think so, Sherlock Holmes! Whoever said that part of the deal was solely for you?”

      His face turned away slightly even as his focus remained on her face. A spasm made his right lid pulsate before he was able to steel his features. Air lifted and lowered his chest.

      “Do you . . . do you want to come with me to Baker Street? No deal? No promises? You would just come because you wanted . . . to . . . be with me?”

       Molly gulped. That was it, the moment she irrevocably lost her heart to the infamous consulting detective. The moment he became more than just her Holmes.

     “Yes, Sh-Sherlock, that is exactly what I want.”

          *   *   *

       Their arrival to the Holmes’ house was not what Molly expected. They did not waltz in through the front door. Instead, Molly found herself shivering in a shadowy, brick stairwell in the back lane behind 221B Baker Street as Holmes searched fruitlessly for his spare key. Spring, it seemed, had decided to regress and the air had almost an icy snap to it.

      “Damn!” He muttered as he ran his fingers over the top of the door trim.

      Molly’s teeth chattered as she shifted back and forth on her feet. “D-Do not you have a key for your own home?”

     He sputtered a sigh and leaned down to check under a reed mat in front of the door. “Yes, but the one I have is for the front door which has a different lock.”

     “S-So wh-why don’t we go in th-through the f-f-front door?”

     His eyes peaked up at her then skittered away. “Mrs. Hudson would surely catch us and harangue me within an inch of my life. Ah-ha! Here it is. Devious woman, she tucked it under the threshold!”

     “Mrs. Hudson?”

     He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My housekeeper.”

     Molly snickered. “Are n-not you th-the master of your h-house, sir?”

     Holmes rose to his feet until he towered over her. She straightened her back against the wall and tilted her head to look up at him. In the place of his eyes were nearly black voids. If not for a glint off his corneas as he dropped his chin, she would not even know he had eyes anymore.

     “I assure you, Miss Hooper,” his voice rumbled as he drew her forward by her wrist, “within the walls of this house I issue the commands.”

     She snorted.

    “Just not on the d-d-doorstep?” Her teeth still clacked.

    Holmes crooked a brow, spun like a matador out of his coat and next thing she knew, he had draped the heavy fabric around her small form. The Belstaff’s length was so long, she could feel the hem of it drag across her toes through her boots. He secured it then tugged her into full contact with his form. Her belly tightened as his head dipped quickly, he nudged her nose upwards then paused with his lips just a whisper from hers.

     “Regardless of my tendency to capitulate to Mrs. Hudson, Hooper, I expect complete submission from you.”

     Molly’s sex tightened at the possessive timber of his voice. She knew she should rebuke him for demanding obedience but instead she felt a wicked little thrill vibrate her limbs. Truthfully, she wanted nothing more than to submit to his domination.

     “Wh-What would you like me to do first?” She whispered.

     His breaths pulsed hot and heavy against her lips. The chill she had felt moments ago was all but gone.

     “Lick your lips,” he growled.

     Molly flicked out her tongue and ran it over her top and then bottom lip. Before she could retract it, Holmes jerked the lapels of his jacket and her mouth crashed into his. He groaned and began kissing her like a man starved. A large hand dropped to her lower back and more firmly pressed her against him. His fingers tensed and then kneaded her back. She felt incredibly small beneath him and a bit overwhelmed by the passion of his kiss but moved her lips in tune with his anyway. There was something decadent and addictive about the firm yet supple feel of his flesh. She felt as if she clung to a ledge by her toes. Her choice seemed like no choice at all. Yes, back was a steady, boring, surefooted path. Yet, forwards was an abyss from which she did not know if she would rise. All she could think of was stepping from her perch and falling. 

     “Mm, this will not do,” Holmes lifted his head. “I should get you inside before I strip this coat back off of you again.”

      She fanned her face as he unlocked the black door and then led her inside into a darkened kitchen. She could have been anywhere, she didn’t care at all to memorize any details. Her gaze was fixed on her detective's handsome face. She was completely absorbed by the expansion of his chest with every breath he took and the ticks in his expression as he ruminated. If she didn’t know any better, she would think he was nervous.

     “Do you need anything before we go upstairs, Hooper?” He squeezed her hand. “A refreshment of some sort?”

      Molly shook her head. “No.”

     He nodded and drew her backwards towards a stairwell that led up into darkness. She allowed herself to be pulled into the passage even though her knees shook with nervous anticipation. Her focus remained fixated on his face. His unwavering gaze gave her courage.

     “Are you ready, Molly Hooper?” He murmured.

     She gulped down a flurry of anxious butterflies. “Yes, Sherlock, please, take me . . . t-to your chambers.”


	16. The Culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These dorks! Especially Sherlock! I think his possesiveness is his inability to cope, really, and for all his fierceness, he's a bit of a petulant teenager in disguise. Anyways, they write themselves. They have finally decided to throw caution to the wind. I think they both believe they know what they are doing. Ha! How wrong they are!
> 
> Oh, yeah . . . 
> 
> SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. . .

     “Damn!”

      Molly bumped into the back of Holmes near the top of the dark stairwell leading to the second story of 221B Baker Street. A soft, yellow light from the hall beyond beckoned but they proceeded no further. He swept his hand out and urged her against the wall where he fell in line beside her. He lifted his head and peered around the wood molding around the opening, then snapped it back.

     “What is it?” She whispered.

     “Mrs. Hudson,” he grumbled. “She is wandering the hall for some reason.”

     Molly choked on a laugh as she listened to the distant melodious hum of an older female, then covered her mouth. Holmes wrinkled his nose as he peered sideways.

     “Ssh, you will give us away!”

     “Oh, I really have to meet this Mrs. Hudson at some point,” Molly laughed between her fingers. “She must be a fearsome creature to behold!”

     Holmes pursed his lips, then sighed.

     “She is not fierce, just fiercely meddlesome, that is all!”  

     Molly buried her face in her hands to stifle her giggles.

     “Contain yourself, Hooper, or we will never pull this off," he whispered harshly.

     She could not, though. In an instant, his arms were around her and he pressed her into the wall. His lips hovered over hers.

     “Be warned, I am not above kissing you to keep you quiet!”

     She smirked. “Ooh, how terrifying.”

     Holmes’ stared down at her a moment with chagrin and then his frame shook. He laughed against her lips. She giggled in return. She had to remind herself that they were twenty-eight and thirty-five respectively, not fifteen. His voice was a bit higher pitched as he proceeded to plead his case.

     “No, I really do mean it, Hooper. One look at you and she will summon a priest. Mark my words, we could be married by dawn.”

     Molly snorted. “God, when you put it that way, it does sound rather horrifying! I do not even know if you are any good at this whole deflowering business. I would not want to discover on our wedding night that you have no talent at all.”

     He pressed his lips together and shook his head as he tried not to grin. He released her and poked her gently in the stomach.

     “Now you know that is highly unlikely. I am more in danger of you being so enamored by my prowess that you follow me around like a puppy until the end of time . . . oop! Hold that thought. Here she comes!”

     Holmes scooted her behind his back and widened his stance. Molly listened to creaking footsteps approach.

     “Sherlock?” A sweet-sounding voice drifted from the landing, “Is that you? Are you home?”

     He cleared his throat. “Yes, Mum. Sorry, late night. Did not want to disturb you so I came up the back way.”

     “Oh, well, I was just coming to check on you. How fortuitous! Do you need anything?”

      Molly watched him shake his head from the shadows. She had to bite her lip hard and hug her arms around herself to stop her giggles from escaping.

      “No, Mrs. Hudson, do not concern yourself with me. I am going to shower and then head straight to bed. Please, you may retire. Take the rest of the night off . . . and tomorrow as well!”

       “Pssht, what about your breakfast, my boy?”

       “Erm, not needed. I will be out again before dawn. No need for you to venture upstairs at all, actually.”

       “Oh.”

       A tense moment followed and Molly thought she heard the woman move closer. She tried to shrink into the shadows as much as possible.

      “Okay, then, lad. Thank you for letting me know for a change. I will go visit my sister then.”

      “Yes, wonderful . . . ahem, I mean, excellent plan. Make a day of it!”

       “Ah, you are too good to me, Sherlock, thank-you. Good night.”

      The steps retreated. Holmes bid her adieu. After a moment, he let out a long breath and slumped back against the wall. His head flopped sideways and he reached for her. She thought she saw him swallow.

      “Shall we?”

     Molly tucked her lip in as her cheeks plumped with a smile. She took his hand and let his draw her up the stairs. She was a bit glad to see another side of him.

     There wasn’t much to see in the narrow upstairs corridor besides a lot of dark wainscoting and curiously morbid black and grey flowered wallpaper. A single overhead incandescent bulb swayed above them. Molly held her breath as Holmes paused in front of a dark brown door. Her heart sped up. Was this it? Was this his chambers? She blinked a few times as she was led into a rather modern looking water closet complete with a pedestal sink, claw foot tub, white subway tiles and shiny chrome fixtures. Holmes swung the door closed, plucked his coat from her shoulders, hung it on a hook and directed her to sit on a stool in view of the tub. He then languidly shrugged out of his blazer and then began unfastening his waistcoat. Molly stared dumbfounded at his elegant fingers as he worked for a moment before he noticed and paused.

     “What is it?”

     Her face warmed as she looked up at him. “Y-You’re undressing.”

     He nodded slowly. His eyes narrowed in contemplation. He discarded his waistcoat and set to popping the buttons of his shirt apart.

     “Yes, it is a prerequisite for . . . what did you call it? Deflowering?” He murmured with a tilt of his head.

     Molly bit her lip. Her face felt on fire. She crossed her ankles on the crossbar of the stool and rubbed her wrists nervously on her lap. She kept looking down at her hands and back up at him anxiously.

     “A-Am I to undress?”

     He shook his head. “Not yet . . . mm, unless you would prefer to sit there naked while I shower? It is entirely up to you.”

     Molly’s breaths quickened as his bare chest became visible between the loose halves of his shirt. Her voice was nearly a squeak when she spoke.

     “You are alright with me w-watching you?”

     Holmes stepped towards her, leaned down and feathered a kiss over her brow.

     “I want you to be comfortable with my body,” his low voice reverberated through her hair, “I do not want to just pounce on you. Well . . . actually, I do, but it is better this way.”

     With that, he stood up and shrugged out his shirt. Her airway constricted at the sight of him. He was lean, leaner than she had thought, yet still somehow large and toned like a young racehorse. When he hunched slightly to unfasten his trousers, muscles rippled across his stomach. Every inch of her tensed as the waist of the garment dropped. Her eyes followed a hard vee down to a hipbone and a tuft of hair. Her toes curled in her boots. Holmes’ eyes flicked up. She fanned her face and glanced away. A low laughter rumbled towards her.

     “Coward,” he chuckled.

     Molly took a few inhalations and dragged her eyes back up but by the time she did, she was staring at his naked backside as he leaned over the tub. She gnashed her lip. His back was a wide wall of solid muscle. His bum consisted of two perfectly curved cheeks. Beneath those, strong, solid thighs tapered to shapely calves. She could not reconcile how flawless a figure he cut. His body was like an illustration of the perfect male form from one of her medical texts. He stepped into the steaming water and with a quick yank, obscured her view with an opaque, white curtain. Her lip puffed in an involuntary pout. She consoled herself with apprasing his silhouette as he lathered his hair and washed his body. She was so entranced she was caught off guard when he pulled the curtain partially aside again. His damp hair was slicked back, water droplets slid down his nose and cheeks.

     “I think you should join me,” he murmured.

      Molly’s eyes widened until they stung. He raised his brows.

     “Relax, Hooper, this is just another small step.”

      He flicked the curtain in the way of her view once more.

     “Make haste, the hot water supply is limited," he called over the noise of the running water.

      She hopped from her seat. For a moment, she stood there shaking but then took a breath, unpinned her hair and popped the buttons open at her wrists. Then she twisted around trying to undo her dress while her hair flopped in her face. She managed to get it mostly undone but the last bead between her shoulders was maddeningly elusive. She could not fathom how she got into the garment in the first place. She heard a low rumbling of laughter as she danced around.

     “Trouble?”

     “I-I am trying!” She rasped.

     He laughed again. “Come here.”

     Her face flaming, Molly backed up to the tub and allowed Holmes to undo her last button. She sucked in a breath when a drop of water plopped onto her back and slipped down between her shoulder and underneath her underclothes. She swallowed. She was about to shower naked with Holmes! She felt a bit panicky. She had never even been in a shower before, let alone one with a naked man. She wriggled out of her dress and then worked on her underthings. She could feel Holmes eyes on her as she first slid her top off her shoulders and then stepped out of her drawers.

      When she turned with her arms lamely folded over her chest, his intense gaze fixed on her face. Almost immediately, his expression softened and he held out his hand. She placed her trembling fingers in his and allowed him to help her into the torrent of streaming water. She gasped as the points of hot water impacted her back, infusing the ends of her hair with heavy moisture, and rushed over her shoulders. Holmes gently plucked her arm from across her breasts. Her breaths came short and fast as he gazed down at her body. Her nipples tightened as water poured down her chest and dripped from her nipples. She waited in agony for his shuttered expression to change. What did he think of her small breasts and slender form? Her body was nothing like the generous sirens one saw in renaissance paintings.

     “This was an ill-conceived idea,” Holmes muttered.

     Molly’s heart seized in her chest. “A-Am . . . am I inadequate for your needs?”

     His eyes returned to hers in an instant. “Good God, no! You are more than adequate, Hooper.”

     His hands slid up her arms and cupped her face as he stepped forward and pressed his slippery form to hers. She felt something blunt and wet jut into her stomach before the length of it seared her belly. A tremor coursed his body and he moaned on her lips. Oh, Lord, he was very keen! Her core tautened and flushed with that knowledge. He tilted her head up and his lips fells on hers greedily. She clutched onto his firm midsection as she answered his feeding frenzy. Wet muscles rippled under her fingers. Her insides vibrated and shifted like flowing sand and her legs quivered. Then, his tongue invaded her mouth and his rod twitched and jerked against her body as if it too wanted to partake in the play. Molly stretched on her toes to get more into the kiss, rubbing her body against the most excited part of him. She felt vacant and needy. Her womanhood kept palpitating.

     Holmes’ head lifted and then fell to her shoulder. “Hu-uh, Christ, I meant this familiarization to go a bit slower . . . ah!”

     His body shook again. He took several steadying breaths against her collar.

     “Yes," he rasped, "let us be finished in here before I muck this all up.”

     Holmes helped her rinse her hair, turned off the shower and assisted her departure from the tub. He fetched a pair of towels from a nearby cabinet. She patted herself dry and squeezed the moisture from her tresses.

     “Your hair,” she whispered as she swaddled herself in the towel.

     “Hmm?” He rubbed the dampness from a mass of thick curls. “Oh, yes, godawful. Grows like a weed and wants to coil into corkscrews. I am half-inclined to shave it all off.”

     “No! Blasphemy!” Her voice was husky.

     A smile tweaked the corner of his generous lips. He wrapped his towel around his hips, twitched his brows and scooped her into his arms. Molly squeaked and clung to his neck as he carried her from the bathroom, down the hall and into his chambers. With a little kick backwards, the door groaned shut. She quickly surveyed the simple room to steady her nerves. A wrought iron double bed with a cream covering occupied the far wall between two tall windows with dark purple, velvet drapes. Wallpaper in an interesting, black and green thistle motif decorated the walls. A large, ebony wardrobe resided in the corner adjacent to the bed, a matching dresser anchored the left wall and an oak writing desk sat opposite of that. Various knick-knacks and curiosities dotted shelves around the interior. Finally, Molly peeked up shyly at Holmes who appeared to have been watching her the whole time. His lip twitched when their eyes met. His shoulders flexed.

      “It is not too late to change your mind,” he said in a low voice.

      She fiddled with the hair at his nape nervously. “Y-You tease me, Holmes. My decision has been made for some time. Please, I cannot wait any longer to . . . to belong to you.”

       Holmes’ nostrils expanded. He continued to the bed where he laid her down and the top of the down-filled comforter. In a heartbeat, he discarded both their towels and his warm, smooth flesh settled atop her own. Her nipples brushed against his chest and flattened as his full weight sunk her into the mattress. The intimacy of where his stiff erection and all its raw maleness pressed into her tummy caused her sex to tingle and flush with heat and wetness. His eyes closed as he seemed to absorb the feel of her beneath him. He groaned and drew some air into his lungs. When he opened his eyes again, he dropped his chin and studied her face. A few glorious curls fell over his brow.

    “There are one or two things we should discuss before we go any further.”

     She bit back a frustrated sigh. “Holmes . . .”

     “Hooper,” his breathing became labored, “you appreciate that in order for me to avoid impregnating you, this could get . . . messy.”

     Heat flared across her face. “I-I suppose?”

    “In fact," the pitch of his voice lowered, "intimacy between partners is not at all gracious. It is sweaty and noisy and indelicate. I understand it can be . . . painful for women the first time.”

     Molly gulped. “I-I am aware of that too.”

    He propped himself up on his elbow. He ran a finger down between her breasts and traced around her belly button.

    “Hmm,” he murmured, “so . . . you want to be mine?”

    Her heart fluttered at the seductive way his lids dropped.

     “Oh, yes.”

     Holmes half-smiled, clasped her wrists and directed her hands upwards towards the wrought iron bedrest. He urged her to take hold of the bars. The action caused her breasts to lift towards him. She felt his breaths puff across their tips. He lowered his lips, looking up at her from under his brows until she just felt the barest touch of them on her right nipple. His manhood flexed against her leg. She inhaled sharply.

     “You want me possess you?” Holmes asked in his deepest tone.

     “Unh, yes!”

     His lids contacted and lines tugged at the corner of his eyes. A muscle flecked in his cheek.

    “Then you are to keep ahold of the bedrest until I instruct you otherwise, agreed?”

     She arched upwards. “Please, Holmes!”

      A large, hot hand supported her back from underneath as his tongue swirled around her nipple and drew it into his mouth.

     “Huh,” her legs shuddered at the eveloping warmth.

     Again, she felt a tug as he sucked a bit harder. She gripped the wrought iron so hard, the rougher edges bit into her hands. His tongue rolled her nipple upwards and pressed the bead of it gently against his top teeth. She cried out. His suction pulled what felt like threads of pleasure deeper within her breast. The ache between her legs transformed into a deep throb. He suckled again and trailed his hands down her sides. When she thought she was strung as taut as she could be, he moved to her other breast and repeated his attentions until she could feel the tiny bumps on the surface of his tongue against her flesh. Impossibly, her insides wound even tighter.

     Holmes brought his head up towards hers again before the knot could have a chance to unwind. She felt the slight roughness of his hand glide over her belly.

     “Open your legs,” he said gruffly as he reached her apex.

     Warmth flooded down her chest. Her nipples peaked as the moisture from his suckling evaporated. She parted her shaking knees. His hand gravitated ever lower. He kissed her shoulder, her neck and jaw. He leaned forward then and teased her lips upwards. One, twice he made her chase him. Then he laughed softly and his mouth finally caught hers. She felt him ease her folds apart at the same time their tongues tangled. He rubbed a digit over the middle of her sex which caused a crackle of pleasurable static to shoot inwards into her body. Her insides washed again with a rush of blood. She whimpered against his mouth as he stroked and teased and assaulted her senses. In a matter of a few minutes, she could no longer contain herself and was gasping for release.

     “Sh,” his slick fingers slowed their pace, “do not relinquish your hold on that, Hooper. I want to be inside you when it happens.”

     She bopped her head back against the bed in frustration. “Unh, but-”

     “No buts,” he growled, “spread your legs further. You are not ready to take me yet.”

     Molly obeyed his gravelly command. She could not seem to catch her breath as she waited for him to continue. Then, she felt the penetration of his finger as it pushed into her body. She clenched around it. He inhaled a sharp breath, stroked it in and out a few times and then added another finger. It was an odd, tight sensation and . . . good, so good.

     Holmes huffed into her hair. “Christ, relax a bit, Hooper. You need to allow yourself to slack, understand? Otherwise, our joining will be very uncomfortable.”

      She nodded and tried to ease her hold. He withdrew his fingers and he entered her again with a third digit. She gulped several breaths as he pushed deeper. The feel of him stretching her almost satisfied that throbbing, internal hunger but she was frustrated when he was able to go only so far. There was a needy pit deeper within her that called out for fulfillment. Over and over she tilted her hips to try to take more and then finally groaned her irritation.

     “Holmes . . . Sherlock, please, please . . . help me . . .”

     His staff twitched on her leg. “Bloody hell, you make it impossible to be patient.”

    He withdrew his hand and shifted his weight on top of her. She chewed her lip as he lifted his hips and she felt him rub something large and blunt against her womanhood until it was almost as slippery as her folds. Then, the probing pushed forwards. Molly’s lungs burned as she nearly hyperventilated. She found herself intensely aware of every little detail. There was a slight stress in lower her back as she bore his weight, a strain of her hips as his width pushed them apart, and a pulling pressure at her entry . . . she wanted to reach for him but kept her hold on the bed above her head as an anchor. Her vulnerability and the feel his primal invasion did wicked things to her body.

     “Ah . . . hu-u-uh!”

     The head of his shaft plunged forwards. The stretch of her flesh started to burn. Then, as the friction gave way, the blunt end of him breached her interior. Either side of her, the mattress dipped with his planted hands. Slowly, he slid his arousal inwards but it was not a smooth glide, rather, he had to inch it in as it her body adjusted. He groaned as he slipped a little and then came into some resistance. She felt a bubble of pain begin to form. Her breath caught and she tensed.

   “Hooper,” he said gruffly, “God, Molly . . . ease yourself. Relax your hold or this is going to be quite painful.”

    She nodded and swallowed. She sucked in short puffs of air through her teeth as she focused on unclenching her muscles. However, the more he pushed, the larger the bubble grew until a long, whistling breath hissed from her lips.

    “Damn, hold onto me,” he commanded softly.

    She let go of the bedrest, locked her arms behind his neck, hooked her legs over his back and pressed her forehead to his collar. He swore and with one, deliberate thrust, burst past the obstruction and buried himself in her womb. There was a quick, blistering pain soon displaced by the more conspicuous feel of her body crowded by an outsider. She wriggled beneath him. His shaft felt as if it were everywhere all at once. There was pressure in her stomach, a hard, ridged presence all around her entry, and a feeling of fullness as if he had finally found where she throbbed most.

     “Molly,” he whispered, “darling, are you okay . . . is it bearable?”

     She closed her eyes and squeezed along his impossible length again. The pain had subsided and a tension gripped her depths. She clutched his neck tighter. Had he used her name and called her darling? Her womb quivered.

     “It f-feels, unh, wonderful, Sh-Sherlock, but . . . it is not enough . . .”

     “Mm,” he grunted and withdrew his hips.

     Molly felt her body resist him as he pulled back. Then, he thrust inwards again, filling her once more. She whimpered in gratification. He made a guttural sound of satisfaction himself and proceeded to move again. Slowly, his hips beat a rhythm against hers, driving her further against the mattress each time. Each time he withdrew and stroked in, the friction was something she could have only described as pure pleasure. His breaths expelled hot and saturated in her ear. He anchored himself on her shoulders and increased his pace. A yearning, throbbing sensation gathered in the indeterminate region between her legs. She concentrated on this point that kept twinging and flaring. Soon, it was all she was consumed with - the increase of that gratifying ache. Then, he seemed to shift ever so slightly and her ache was a full blown hungry need.

     Somehow, she was aware she was letting out a throaty cry with each raw penetration but was too lost to care. She pushed herself against him as she felt a gathering and collapsing of her pending eruption until finally, like a hurricane blasting through windows, she released. The point which had tightened to an impossible knot blew apart and spasms ricocheted from that spot outwards. Vaguely, she felt Sherlock slow his movements while she succumbed to her orgasm. She let it wash over her and liquify her limbs until the press of his lips on her neck brought her back to reality.

     Molly felt something soft in her hands and realized she had jammed her fingers into his hair. Her flesh was hot and damp all over. Her breasts were slick with sweat on their undersides and her legs felt like jelly. She became aware of a bit of pain in her groin and hissed.

     “Mm, sorry,” Sherlock murmured in her ear. “I am a bit heavy.”

     “Uh,” Molly experienced a ripple of pleasure as his still very hard shaft stroked into her again. “You . . .you are still very . . . stiff.”

     He nodded. “Yes, trust me, this is nearly an i-impossible feat but I wanted you to enjoy yourself. Did you? It sounded as if you did.”

      She couldn’t answer. She nodded quickly, mortified as she fiddled with his hair nervously. She had been very vocal.

      “What about you?” She whispered. “Are you going to . . . finish?”

       He let out a noisy exhalation. “Ah, yes, but I think your hips have bore my weight long enough.”

      Molly relinquished his scalp as he pushed upwards, unsure of what he was planning. She looked up at him as he rose above her and slowly withdrew. His eyes were closed and lips were parted briefly as he extracted himself from her confines. She felt a little bereft without him buried within her body. Then, from his knees, he reached for a pillow and set it on the bed next to her. With a dark look in his eyes, he leaned down and kissed her briefly. He lifted his lips and hovered a moment.

     “Molly, I would like you to lie on your stomach, hips on the pillow,” he directed raggedly.

     Her belly did a little flip at the tremor of his voice. She bobbed her head quickly, feeling a little anxious but excited at the unknown. He kissed her and then sat up again. His eyes were narrowed with intent as he watched her turn over. She wriggled into position on top of the pillow. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she felt air tickle her perked up rear. His hands slid down her back and over the curves of her posterior. He made a deep sound in his throat and leaned over her.

     “Hold onto the posts again, please,” he murmured.

     Molly took a nervous little breath and reached out for the iron bars as her hair fell around her face. She grasped them firmly and blew out a couple of breaths against the bedspread. Sherlock moved over top of her, his ridged erection slid on top of her bum. Her core clenched and pulsated as she realized that he intended to take her like that. She arched her back as he spread her legs. Then he guided his head inside again. She puffed and panted at the familiar pressure. She closed her eyes when they started rolling back in her head and swalowed convulsively at the decadence . . . the pure wickedness of feeling him spread her from behind. Part way in, Holmes grasped her waist and thrust so deeply she felt like something had impaled her belly. The push of his hips plumped her backside and she could feel the hairs of his navel against her cheeks. Despite the faint pain from having already been plundered, she was greedy for more. She half-whimpered, half-moaned in satisfaction. Holmes supported himself on either side of her ribs and pulled out, then stroked back into her slowly.

     “Unh!” She cried as his shaft drove inwards.

    Again, he retracted only to pump back in, pressing her forwards on the bed.

    She couldn’t contain herself. “Uuunnh!”

     Then, he increased his pace but only to a deliberate glide. It was just enough so that she could feel every ripple of every vein as he pinioned her body. Soon, she was letting loose with her own primal cries. Her center already felt raw and exposed and it did not take much to bring it near completion. Above her, Sherlock also seemed to be losing the battle for control. His movements became a lot less fluid. He panted noisily. His pace increased a final time. At the realization he was near his release, Molly let go and was hit by another soul-fracturing orgasm.Its undulations caused her to insides to spasm and compress on his member. He swore, plunged back in a final time then left her body.

     Atop her rear, his member twitched. Little pulsations rippled along its length as something warm and wet spilled over her bum, her seam and down her back. His hips jerked against her a couple more times. Then he groaned and slumped to her left. She let go of the bedrest and laid there a moment feeling as limp as a bowl of pudding. She was thoroughly spent. She opened her eyes to see Sherlock lying sideways, breathing heavily and staring at her through expanded pupils. He reached out and brushed a hair back from her face with trembling fingers. With a strange, contemplative expression he caressed her cheek. Then, he frowned and yanked back his hand. He rolled away, jumped up from the bed and returned a few seconds later with a damp cloth.

       Evidence of their coupling was wiped away. Molly sat up once he was finished and hugged her knees to her chest. She never really thought about what would come next but had someone asked, she would not have expected a drawn out silence. She looked up at him with confusion.

      “I-Is something amiss?” She asked softly.

     Her body still tingled all over. Sherlock had spilled evidence of his pleasure on her flesh. She was thoroughly confused. Some form of emotion floundered beneath his façade. He swallowed and gave his head a shake before reaching for a dark purple dressing gown from a hook near his bed. He spun into it and secured it tightly.

     “Excuse me a moment,” he mumbled.

      Molly nearly choked on her own disappointment as a lumped formed in her throat. “You are leaving. What is wrong? What did I do wrong?”

      Sherlock’s face appeared pained. His fingers dangled at his sides. His eyes flicked once in her direction before he glanced away again.

     “N-Nothing, Mol- Hooper, I just need to go see to something-”

     Molly picked up the pillow from the middle of the bed and threw it at him. She could cry. He deflected the harmless provectile with his hands.

     “Liar! You are running away!”

     A deep crease appeared between his brows. He rubbed his hands over his face.

     “You do not understand . . .”

     She scrambled out of the bed and retrieved her dress. She didn’t bother with her underthings, she just crudely threw it on and fastened a couple of buttons. As she bent to gather her other garments, Sherlock stalked up to her.

      “What do you think you are doing?” He growled.

     “Going home,” she glowered up at him, “thank-you for your education in intimate relations, Sherlock Holmes. Your lessons have been revelatory indeed. I . . . I cannot wait to try them out all over town!”

     Holmes glared, plucked her underthings from her hands and tossed them over his shoulder with a gruff curse. He stepped towards her. She stepped away but raised her chin in defiance. Undeterred, he walked her back until she bumped into the door. He trapped her within the arc of his arms as he leaned on the door and dipped his head close to hers.

      “Do what you will, Molly Hooper,” his voice rumbled, “but have a care for the poor bastards you enlist to further your education. I will take great satisfaction in removing the limbs of any man who dares touch you.”

      Molly felt a wavering in her tummy even though she was infuriated with him.

      She licked her lips. “To hell with you. What do you care? You got what you wanted.”

      His chest heaved. “No, that is the problem. It seems I have not rid myself of this . . . lust for you at all.”

       She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, so sorry to have made myself a burden!”

      His head dropped forwards. He hauled in several breaths and then glanced back up at her again.

     “Y-You have,” His voice sounded distressed, “You have infiltrated every corner of my mind, Hooper. You have become a veritable obsession and yet, it seems that is not enough for you . . . what . . . what do you want from me?”

      Molly sniffled. “Truthfully?”

      His lips set as if he already knew what she was going to say.

      “Everything,” she whispered.

       He huffed and his eyes contracted again. “So you are not content with having conquered me in every other manner imaginable. You would have my heart as well?”

       “Yes,” she admitted.

      She could not pretend any more, not after what had happened. She wanted his heart and soul.

      “Well, I am sorry to disappoint then,” he replied gruffly. “You cannot have it.”


	17. The Confines

     If ever there were a metaphor for Molly’s existence, a commute was the perfect candidate. Her life as of late, was a series of carriage rides where her confines ever shrank and destinations proved elusive. So, it was not altogether surprising that she found herself once again having an existential crisis in another hack as she returned home from the most life-altering of nights.

     At that instant, her jaw ached from keeping it clenched and the muscles of her arms had nearly seized from maintaining them tightly crossed. Yet, she persisted in glowering at the streets as they passed outside the hackney cab’s curved window. The sun had begun to filter through the skies above. The city stirred. The earliest workers were just emerging like busy birds collecting the morning’s dew worms. A bump in the road bounced her towards the large man seated next to her in their two-seater carriage the same instant they passed the steamy windows of a bakery prepping for the day. She wriggled away, determined to pretend she was alone and to shove the memories of their lovemaking far into the back of her mind. Her body refused to play along, though. The feel of him had imprinted on every inch of her, inside and out.

     “You are being ridiculous,” Holmes muttered.

      Molly turned her chin up and pretended to look around as if she had heard something unexpected.  

     “My, the steeds are especially windy this morning,” she remarked with faux puerility.

     The detective to her left snorted. “I suppose you mean to compare me to a horse’s arse? Well, so be it, at least horses cannot be faulted for their endowment.”

      Of course he could not resist saying something completely aggravating. Her mouth fell open as she finally swiveled her head in his direction.

     “You . . . you are an undeniable self-aggrandizer, Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you imagine yourself some sort of irresistible rake-”

      The end of his nose twitched and his lips took on a twist. “I do not need to imagine. My charms worked on you, did they not?”

     Molly snorted as the hack lurched to a halt and the driver above them called out her uncle’s address. She squinted and then frowned at Holmes from beneath heavy brows. She opened her mouth to retort but could not think of anything that wouldn’t earn another caustic retort. With an angry puff, she yanked at the door. Before she could make a righteous exit, she felt a hand clamp around her wrist and she was pulled backwards. She ended up in Holmes’ lap with one of his hands supporting her under her ribs and the other cradling her face. The pads of his fingers stroked tentatively along her jaw as if he were worried they were a little too rough. He wore a slightly perturbed expression. She wasn’t sure if he was making a deduction or trying to calm himself. His pupils scanned back and forth over her face.

      “Why must I endure this animosity when all I have done is be honest with you? ” his voice was so low that she felt its vibration through her like a passing ship. “What would you have me do? I cannot give you something which I do not possess.”

      Molly gripped fistfuls of his heavy overcoat. She rubbed her thumb over one of the large, onyx buttons. He hadn’t bothered styling his hair in his haste to escort her home from Baker Street and his soft curls beckoned. She could almost cry over the fact that she had no claim to them or the man to which they belonged.

      “Sher- um, Holmes, forgive me . . . my anger is misdirected and you are right, it is not fair. I am not entitled to anything b-but, my heart, you see . . . it has other ideas . . .”

      Again, the driver called their stop outside the cab. Holmes curls bounced on his head as he barked an impatient command to give them a moment. His fingers contracted on her ribs. She shifted her feet against the side of the cab and repositioned herself on his thighs.

     “We keep delaying the inevitable,” she whispered sadly. “It is time for us to part. I-It is past due.”

     His shoulders shuddered upwards with an indrawn breath. He shook his head. His piercing gaze once again penetrated her very being.

     “I am not at all through with you, Hooper, not yet.”

     She shook him by his lapels. “I have decided that you are the one who is ridiculous. You ask too much of me.”

     He made a rumbling sound in his throat. His fingers threaded into her hair behind her ear.

     “I only ask that you let this thing run its course, for both our sakes,” he growled. “Hooper . . .”

     He drew her up towards him.

     “Molly,” Holmes whispered raggedly, “mark my words, you will find me tedious long before I tire of you. There will come a day when you will not be able to stomach another minute in my presence. On that day and only that day will I relinquish you but until then, you are mine.”

     Molly arched herself upwards in his arms until their lips brushed as she spoke.

     “This is how it is?” she moved her lips once against his and pulled back panting. “Fine, then, Sherlock Holmes, but do not imagine you hold the whip-hand over me.”

      His eyes darkened. “Oh? Care to test your theory?”

      Holmes moved to kiss her but she lifted her nose so he could just graze her lips. His mouth tracked hers but she just flicked out her tongue teasingly. When he groaned in frustration, she laughed breathily.

     “Mm, hmm,” she slid off his lap and fixed her hair, “I must be off before the sun gets too high in the sky. Gomery was an accomplished game hunter in his youth, you know. I cannot imagine that he would be pleased to discover me missing from my chambers at this hour.”

     She tried to sound as unaffected as possible but she suffered conflicted emotions. Her heart was still bruised yet she held out hope. Perhaps he was right, Perhaps they could grow tired of one another.

     Holmes huffed a breath shifted in his seat and stretched his legs. Molly averted her eyes just as he adjusted his groin region. She felt her face heat. For all her bravado, it still shocked her that she was able to elicit such a physical reaction in him. His voice was growly when he spoke.

     “I want to see you again later,” he muttered.

     Molly lifted her chin. “Well, you had best come up with some sort of excuse to call on me then.”

          *   *   *

     Several hours later on the other side of town, Gregory Lestrade flicked the brim of his hat up as he made his way down the stone steps to the cell block beneath his detachment. He paused at the bottom of the murky stairwell and poked his head out into the dimly lit expanse of the main chamber. A prickle of ice climbed his spine. Truth be told, he did not enjoy visiting the converted dungeons even when things were going well and with a murderous bride on the loose, the basement was the last place he wanted to be. It was a grim cavern with a dank, fetid atmosphere and mushrooms growing from between the ancient, hand-carved stones. There was always some drunk sobering up in a cell who moaned like mournful spirit or wretched as if expelling demons during a exorcism.

     However, he had learned just an hour before then that Miss Sally Donovan had been apprehended and secured in one of the cells. He had sent word for Sherlock Holmes but when the detective didn’t immediately respond or turn up, Greg had felt compelled to check in on the welfare of their latest collar. This sad abyss was no place for Miss Sally Donovan, no matter of what she was accused.

     With a deep breath, Greg hopped off the last step and stealthily navigated his way past several cells, large and small. Plaintive cries issued from several of the prisoners which he chose to ignore. They weren’t treated all that badly at Scotland yard compared to other facilities as none of them had that long a stay. Most spent a few days and were either released or sent on to one of the prisons.

     Finally, he reached the very end cell where the basement cobblestones gave way to dirt floors. At first when he peered into the small space with its sliver of light cutting across the floor from a small, barred window, he saw nothing. He frowned and stepped closer to the bars. Suddenly, a face with wide, slightly manic-looking eyes appeared mere inches from his on the other side of the bars. He gasped and stumbled backwards. His heart’s pace exploded like a flywheel on a single stroke engine.

      “Inspector Lestrade,” Miss Donovan’s rhythmic lilt curled towards him, “I knew you would come.”

     Her fingers wrapped around the bars either side of her head and she jerked her face forwards. Her eyes darted back and forth as she scanned the area.

      “Where is your detective? Can you function without him?”

     Greg swallowed and then found his voice. “I signed the warrant for you, Miss Donovan. Sherlock Holmes assists me, not the other way around.”

      Miss Donovan pushed back from the bars and smiled. “Did you now, Mr. Inspector? Why? What was the warrant for? Your cohorts did not bother to tell me of what I stand accused.”

     Greg swallowed as she rubbed her wrists. Then his jaw set. Somehow, he knew the arresting officers had mishandled his medium even though she still grinned impishly at him. She looked quite a bit less imposing this day as well, almost fragile. Absent was her dramatic face paint and gothic garb. She wore instead a pale yellow and white pin-striped day dress and her hair was twisted back with just a few mischievous curls framing her face. A modest white cap with a narrow brim sat atop her head. Without her heavy makeup, he could see the freckles that danced across her nose and cheeks. He couldn’t help feeling a bit agitated about the life she had to endure on the fringes of society and the seemingly arbitrary rules that dictated she remain there. He memorized the delicate column of her neck and the curve of her cheek. He would dance every dance with her if given the opportunity, society be damned.

    “You are not accused of anything yet, Miss Donovan,” he said gruffly, suddenly a bit uncomfortable in his own skin and the intensity of feelings she elicited in him. “Thus far, you are only being held on suspicion of murder.”

      She dropped her lids half way and raised her brows. “Only suspicion?”

     His nose scrunched up as he frowned. “Aye, yes, just because you were present when a man died, does not make you guilty of his murder.”

     Miss Donovan trailed her fingers back and forth over her forearms absentmindedly. “Hmph, it usually does when you are a brown woman.”

     Once again, Greg pushed a lump down in his throat. She jested, but there was a deep pain in her dark eyes. He stepped closer to the bars and removed his hat.

     “Miss, just tell me you had no part in Mr. Clairmont’s death a-and that will be evidence enough for me to free you from this hellhole.”

     His medium’s head twitched sideways like a confused bird and then her chin went back. Greg suppressed a smug smile at her rounded eyes and open mouth. He surmised that she was rarely surprised by anyone. However, his enjoyment of the moment was short-lived. A jerk of her head indicated something beyond their tete-a-tete had caught her attention. Her eyes flicked sideways, shuttered and she stepped back with a bit of a scowl. At the same time, a shadow fell over them both.

     “That is hardly a thorough assessment, Inspector,” murmured the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes.

     Greg’s face flamed as he turned to face the large detective. “Holmes, d-damn, i-it was just a tactic . . . to erm, get her to speak.”

     Miss Donovan’s lips turned down in disgust and she spun around in the cell. “Men! Bah!”

     Greg stared after the slight woman with a bit of falling feeling in his abdomen as her shoulders slumped. She was a con and a scam artist, of that he had no doubt, yet he felt somewhere in the pit of his belly that she was not responsible for Mr. Clairmont’s death; and damn if he didn’t sort of admire her for preying on the rich and stupid. He turned and nudged Holmes away from the cell.

     “About bloody time you showed up!” Greg whispered harshly. “Miss Donovan has been stuck in this cell for over an hour-”

     Holmes glowered down at him. “You are quite quick to believe Miss Donovan’s innocence in this matter, Lestrade. Are you privy to something I am not?”

     Lestrade scratched at his bushy sideburns. “No, but . . . don’t you ever just know what a person is about, Holmes? I trust my gut,”

     Holmes rolled his eyes. “Oh, good Lord, you cannot be serious. I suppose you think there was an actual ghost as opposed to Miss Donovan dressed up as one.”

     Greg’s lips turned down. “That phantom was not Miss Donovan . . . I know what I saw.”

     “The Inspector is right, Mr. Holmes,” the lady in question’s voice carried to them from the cell, “I am no ghost.”

     Holmes’s eyes narrowed and he stalked back to the cell. Miss Donovan leaned on her hip and flicked her fingers as if shaking off an irritant. Then she inspected her nails with a bored look on her face.

     “Miss Donovan, you know who I am,” Holmes murmured. “As entertaining and clever as your little production was, you must know that I was not fooled.”

      She smirked. “I do not know that, Mr. Holmes. A man is dead, is he not?”

      Lestrade felt his eyes bulge as he glanced at Sherlock. The large man stretched his neck. She’d hit a nerve.

     “Is that an admission?” Holmes asked.

     She rolled her eyes. “Of course not! No . . . we have that in common, Mr. Holmes. We were both taken for fools.”

     Lestrade stepped forwards, suddenly hopeful. “Does that mean you did not have a hand in that murder?”

     Miss Donovan snorted. “Would it make a difference if I denied it? I would hang either way, would I not?”

     “No!”

     “Not neccesarily,” Holmes said at the same time.

     The medium sighed. “Oh, you are silly men indeed if you think that is the case.”

     Miss Donovan moved backwards towards the rear of the cell. At the same moment, Lestrade heard the heavy clack of hooves from the back laneway through the small window. Next thing he knew, a chain was being wrapped around the bars from the outside.

      “And you are even sillier men if you think there are any walls which can confine me for long,” Miss Donovan hissed.

     Holmes grabbed Lestrade’s arm. “The street!”

     There was a loud clunk as the chain was yanked against the bars. Greg stood there stunned as Holmes took off running. Once more, he heard someone command their steed forward and the chains pulled taut again.

     “Miss Donovan-“

     It felt like the floor shook beneath his feet with the final yank. The chains ripped out the iron bars and several of the stones from the centuries old stone wall fell into the cell from around the window. The inspector watched in horrified fascination as a large, dark hand reached in through the opening. Miss Donovan took the hand, turned and winked, and then was gone.


	18. The Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Lestrade, he has no luck! Holmes, on the other hand, well . . . I guess that depends on your definition.

     Holmes doubled over panting on his knees as he reached the back alley behind Scotland Yard. At the far end of the lane, the tall metal gates securing the area were smashed open and curious onlookers peered into the enclosure. He huffed and knocked his deerstalker from his head as he gulped for air. Sally Donovan had effectively disappeared again. He stood up and cursed into the chilly afternoon air. Above him, he heard the crack of lightning as it jumped from one angry grey cloud to the next. A few seconds later, a clattering rumble reverberated between the stone walls of the narrow corridor. The gawkers scattered as rain whizzed to the ground. A fat rain drop splattered on his cheek just below his eye. He blinked away the remnants that clung to his lids.

     “Perfect,” he muttered as he wiped water from his face.

     “Holmes!” Lestrade called as he sprinted from the direction he had just come, “i-is she gone?”

     “Yes, no thanks to you!” he snapped as he rushed to examine the gaping hole in the side of the building just above street level.

     More rain fell around the scene, bouncing off the cobblestones. Holmes waved the inspector over anxiously.

     “Remove your jacket at once, I need you to preserve the scene while I examine it,” he directed as he crouched.

     Lestrade sniffed and crossed his arms. “What? You have the broader coat. Why do not you do that while I analyze the wreckage?”

     Holmes’ face twisted in disbelief as he gazed up at Lestrade. “Who is consulting for whom here?”

     “Hell, Holmes, why do I always have to be the one who gets soaked?” His cohort shrugged out of his jacket, grumbling the whole time. “Why is it always me?”

     Holmes bit back a dry retort. Ensuing guilt caused his jaw to clench. He wondered if Lestrade suspected that he was the competitor responsible for Hooper’s rejection. Holmes rather thought he might and if so, the man was being a phenomenal good sport about it. Holmes' neck stiffened as the taut guilt spread downwards. He did not deserve such friendship. He shook his head and refocused on the imprint of half a horseshoe in the crumbled grout. Rough gouges marred the street’s paving stones in front of the impression. His fingers hovered just above the evidence.

     “Wide construction, substantial notches indicating larger nails. This is the tread of a heavy draft horseshoe,” he murmured.

     He pulled at the ends of a weighty chain partially buried by the bricks from the wall.

     “This chain,” he yanked it loose to inspect its manufacture, “it is made with stud links, marine grade. A very particular construction . . .”

     Lestrade bent closer. “Oy, do you think you know its source?”

     Sherlock dropped the chain, snatched his hat from where he had dropped it and stood up as several additional officers from within Scotland yard arrived. He shook the water from his deerstalker and tugged over his damp head. His voice dropped an octave.

     “Well, Miss Donovan hails from Dominica, does she not?” He asked quietly. “So, it would make sense she has a support network among others from the British Caribbean islands. I have no doubt that Abraham Alleyne is behind her rescue. He emigrated from Barbados and is arguably the most skilled blacksmith at the West India Docks.”

     Lestrade donned his coat in a flourish. “Then we must seek him out immediately.”

     Holmes stopped his advance with an outstretched hand. “Mr. Alleyne is not a man one confronts without some semblance of a plan or, absent that, a large contingent of men. He stands taller than myself and weighs in excess of 18 stones. I have boxed this man in a ring. He knows how to fight.”

      Lestrade squinted at him as rain ran down his face. There was a question in his eyes.

     “Did . . . did he beat you during a match?”

     Holmes’ shoulders tensed. He suppressed a grimace as heat flushed up his neck.

     “I would not say that exactly,.”

      Lestrade’s nose wrinkled. “What would you say?”

      Holmes sniffed as he raised his chin. “I, ahem, lost. It is not the same.”

     The inspector snorted a laugh and twitched his brows. “Alright, Holmes, alright. So, what do we do then? Miss Donovan has gotten herself into this thing deep. I am afraid she might skip town.”

      The detective nodded. “This is a possibility . . .”

       Holmes glanced through the sheeting rain to the busy street. It was little use lingering. However, he wasn’t sure that their best course of action was to chase after the medium. Sally Donovan was a distraction. They were meant to suspect her of the crime and waste precious time and resources pursuing her all over London. He wouldn’t put it past the cunning woman to have purposefully allowed herself to be arrested. What better way to solidify suspicion than to subsequently break out of jail? The question was, why was she complicit in being branded a criminal? Why would she take such a risk with her own neck?

       “Unfortunately, I do not believe we will find Miss Donovan tonight, Lestrade,” Holmes turned to head out of the deluge.

      The inspector skipped after him stuttering protests. They pushed their way past a gaggle of officers and ducked back inside the station. Holmes whirled on his friend when his chatter become too much.

      “Inspector,” he stepped up to the officer and hissed through his teeth, “despite your assertions, your medium will not want to be discovered again any time soon. Besides, even if you do manage to track her down, she will not provide you with the answers you seek. I guarantee, the more time you spend speaking with her, the more confused you will become.”

       Lestrade frowned and scratched his sideburns. “What? She is not that clever!”

      Holmes raised his brows and blinked a couple times. “Miss Donovan is exceptionally clever. Why do you think she fascinates you? You are unusually attracted to women with superior intellects.”

      The Inspector’s face flushed red. “Am not!”

      Holmes rolled his eyes.

      “Such a witty rejoinder. Do not take offense, my good man. I cannot fault you for your predilection,” he mumbled as Molly’s face floated into his mind. “Intelligence in a woman can have a potent appeal.”

      Lestrade eyes rounded. 

     “My word," he gasped, "Sherlock Holmes speaks of women and appeal in the same sentence -have I fallen down a rabbit hole?”

       Holmes’ stomach gurgled. He stretched his neck and flipped up his collar.

      “Perhaps we all have.”

       He grimaced and pinched his nose. What a thing to say! If he wasn’t careful, he would end up the fodder of Lestrade’s most repugnant cronies. He needed to redouble his efforts to expunge Hooper from his psyche. A single encounter, it seemed, was not enough to rid her from his system. He exhaled a rattling sigh.

       “Holmes?”

       The detective shook out his shoulders. “Apologies, Lestrade, I have something that more urgently needs my attention.”

       “What? Now?”

       “Yes.”

       He brushed the last of the water from his coat, though, he did not know why. He was about to head back out in the rain.

      “B-But . . . we have a case to solve, Holmes!”

     Anger welled up within the consulting detective. He was livid with his damned eidetic memory which decided to act up at that moment. Molly Hooper’s essence pervaded his senses. His nostrils filled with the smell of her perfume, wild roses and vanilla. Her heady cries echoed through his skull. Even the softness of her skin seemed to slide beneath the layers of his clothing. Yet, as intoxicating as all that was, it was the vision of her warm brown eyes regarding him that had the most deleterious effect on his constitution. His stomach felt like runny oatmeal. His palms sweated. He needed to see her immediately or he would be driven insane.

      “I will let you know when I solve it, of course,” Holmes rasped as he tipped his hat. “Good day, Inspector.”

          *   *   *

     Molly ran her fingers over the print in her well-worn anatomy text at her writing desk in her Uncle’s parlor. She loved the distinguished tome above all the others in her collection. She could still feel the imprint of the characters struck by the printing press. It smelled so wonderfully technical as well, a man-made confection of ink and preservatives. She fancied she knew every page. Each illustration was etched in her memory. She knew many of the footnotes word for word. Her eyes tingled. A tear formed along her lid and rolled down her cheek. With a sniff, she hefted the heavy text closed. Air from between its pages stirred the tendrils around her face. She wiped the tear from her face and then rubbed the moisture on her pale blue and brown pin-striped dress.

     Molly did not know why she even bothered to study for exams she would not be allowed to write. She swallowed a lump of bitter disappointment. Janine, Emilia, and Mary would all be proper doctors soon and she would be left behind. She dreaded bumping into one of them and having it lorded over her, but that was almost assuredly going to happen. She could not possibly avoid a run-in if she intended to continue a medical career of some sort in London. God forbid she end up a nurse under one of her classmate's supervision.

     Yet, London wasn't her only option. Hope sparked in her chest and her heart began beating an excited rhythm. Why had she never considered that before? Perhaps she had been too distracted by her obsession with Sherlock Holmes. There was a women's medical school in Edinburgh also established by Dr. Sophia Jex-Blake, one of the original founders of her institution. There should be no reason why they wouldn't grant Molly credit from a sister school nor reject her application either. If anything, the Scots would be sympathetic to her predicament. She was confident they would help her if only as a thumb in the eye of the English aristocracy who had been responsible for her expulsion.

     Molly sprang from her seat so suddenly, she awoke her uncle with a start in his favorite chair. He snorted and coughed several times.

     "Good, Lord, Molly!" he wheezed. "What the devil has you in such a tizzy?"

     "Scotland!" She whirled from her small writing desk.

      "Wh-What?!" he stuttered groggily. "Are th-they threatening to separate again?"

      Molly turned back with a beaming smile. "Oh, that's not what I meant. Though, I think it would be rather more shocking if they had suddenly announced they were going to start flying the Union Jack from all their government buildings. No, Uncle, I have decided I will finish my degree in Edinburgh and if not there, America. A thousand pardons for waking you, but I have some letters to write."

     "America!" he exclaimed as he sat upright. "You are not serious!"

     Molly raised her chin defiantly. "I am."

     "You cannot run off to America,” he blustered, “I . . . I forbid it!"

     She planted her hands on her hips. "You what?"

      Her uncle struggled up from his chair. He pushed his glasses up his nose once he was on his feet. His cheeks were pink.

      "My dear child," he panted, "do not be so nonsensical. You do not know anyone in America. You have no support there.”

       Molly opened her mouth to retort but was interrupted by Gomery clearing his throat. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the old Butler standing in the shadow cast by the dark figure of none other than Sherlock Holmes.

       “Mr. Holmes for you,” he announced awkwardly.

       Molly flushed over every inch of her flesh. If it were possible, he made her even more nervous than before they had been intimate. In fact, she absolutely did not know where she should look except at his polished boots. The temperature of her face increased by several degrees. The man had seen her naked, done wicked things to her body and made her lose all semblance of decorum and control.

       “Dr. Stamford, I hope I am not interrupting anything,” his deep voice intoned from the entry.

      She closed her eyes as her uncle reassured the detective. Holmes’ baritone voice set her nerves alight with each utterance. Every secret place on and in her body perked up like a puppy anxious for table scraps.

        “In actual fact, Holmes,” her uncle sighed, “your timing is perfect. You must convince Molly that moving to America is a terrible idea.”

       She opened her eyes just in time to see Holmes’ brows contract and his eyes narrow. His head jerked towards her with a confused frown fixed upon his face.

      “I do not follow. Since when are you moving to America, Hoo-, I mean, Miss Hooper?”

     She crossed her arms as she braced for the full impact of his blue-green gaze. Her tummy quivered as she fully took him in. He really was a breathtaking man. He was so tall and broad next to her diminutive uncle. He wore a well-tailored, dark grey tweed suit with a navy-blue waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. A somewhat lighter blue and black cravat in a simple knot at his throat completed the look. She bit the inside of her lip as her eyes flitted to his hair. He hadn’t styled it so severely this day, the curls on the top of his head were looser waves of dark hair. 

      “Molly, go on,” her uncle chided, “tell him about your foolhardy plans.”

     She pursed her lips an instant. “Well, they are not foolhardy for one. Really, Uncle! I am twenty-eight and I am perfectly capable of sorting out my own life-”

     Lines formed at the corners of Holmes’ eyes as they contracted further. “Are you?”

     She nodded quickly. “Y-Yes and it is high time I do so. Now, Uncle is being a tad histrionic. You see, I need to complete my education and there are several schools at which I can do that. America is not my first choice, though. I am quite set on Edinburgh.”

      Holmes’ nostrils flared as he took a breath. His attention turned ever so slightly to her uncle. He dipped his head.

      “I do believe I may be of assistance, Dr. Stamford, but I think my persuasion might be most effective if I have your niece’s undivided attention.”

     He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye deliberately. Her stomach flip-flopped.

     “Oh, yes! Yes, please do so. I will tootle off to my study for a spell,” Dr. Stamford agreed. “Come, Gomery, let us leave so that Mr. Holmes might talk some sense into our dear Molly.”

      Molly’s arms tightened across her chest as her uncle left the parlor. His whistles could be heard out in the front hall as he navigated his way to his study. Once Gomery had cleared the room as well, Holmes made his way to the entry. Molly watched his back flex beneath his suit jacket as he pulled the heavy wooden sliding doors closed with a loud thud. He leaned against them momentarily after they were shut and took a deep breath. She watched his shoulders rise and fall before he turned around.

     “I am somewhat perplexed, Hooper,” he murmured as he tucked a thumb into the pocket of his waistcoat, “I thought you understood that I was going to correct your situation.”

     Molly smoothed her damp palms over her skirts as he approached her with his eyes fixed on her face. “I do not know that actually. You are a busy man, Mr. Holmes, and thus far your answer has been to supply me with a wardrobe meant for a man. I am not certain this will solve any problems for me. Am I meant to disguise myself to work in the morgue or something?”

     He shook his head once. He was almost upon her where she stood quaking in the middle of the parlor. She looked up as he stopped just shy of bumping into her. His lips pulled at the corners before he spoke.

     “You are meant to attend school.”

     Molly’s nose crinkled, then she scoffed. “Wh-What? Are you having a laugh at my expense, Holmes? I attend a women’s institute, they do not train men there. Not to mention, I am certain my instructors would recognize me in such a getup.”

     Holmes leaned down.

     “Not the women’s institute, Hooper,” his eyes flicked back and forth over her face, “with the help of my brother, we have convinced the London Hospital Medical College to allow a Mr. M Hooper, an exceptional transfer student from the military, to write his exams and perform his final evaluations with an endorsement in pathology.”

      Her lips parted in shock.  

      “That . . . that is impossible,” she whispered, “it is mad!”

     “No more so than dressing as a man to traipse about your uncle’s morgue,” he retorted.

      “But-”

      Holmes’ eyes narrowed. A frustrated, sort of distressed wrinkle appeared between his brows.

     “Hooper-” his eyes darted around as if searching for the words “-Molly . . . if the solution can be found in London, is that not preferable? Would not you rather remain here amongst your family and, erm, friends?”

      Molly laughed sadly.

     “I love my Uncle dearly, Sh-” she swallowed so she could attempt again to utter his name as she wrung her hands “-Sh-Sherlock, but he will not be around forever. As for friends, well, I cannot count any among my regular companions. I . . . I have never been the sort of girl to make friends easily actually, but, I mean, it is fine. I am not sad or anything. God, I just mean, it would not be all that great a hardship for me to start anew somewhere.”

     He cast his eyes down a moment in contemplation. His lips twitched as he thought about something. Then he drew in a breath.

     “Am I not your friend?” He asked quietly.

     Her heart twisted in her chest. Her lungs stung as she held her breath. She wondered how could he appear so strong yet so vulnerable at the same time.

     “At the moment, yes,” she whispered in a shaky tone, “but wh-who knows if you will want anything to do with me this time next month.”

     Holmes flinched and jerked his head sideways as if he heard something distasteful. Then, his luminous eyes caught hers in a troubled gaze.

     “I do not apportion my friendship lightly, Molly Hooper. Whatever comes of our association, I will always be your ally.” Holmes cleared his throat. “A-Always. Never doubt it.”

      Molly’s heart seized. Her peripheral vision went dark and he became the glowing center of her vision. It was as if the only thing that existed in the entire universe was this fascinating contradiction of a man in front of her. Her heart beat picked up until it buffeted in her chest like a windmill in a storm. She loved him so much in that moment. She adored him. When tears threatened to pour from her eyes, she threw her arm around his neck and kissed him to stave off waterworks. He groaned and in an instant, she was clasped against him. One hand cradled the back of her head while the other spread out between her shoulders. He licked his lips between hers and responded as if they were lovers separated by years of yawning loneliness, not mere hours.

     Molly’s emotional swell was displaced by lust as soon as his tongue plunged into her mouth. Her body was already wise to this embrace. Frenetic sensations whooshed through her extremities, her flesh and her loins. Her skin sensitized, her fine hairs bristled and even sounds amplified in her ears as if she were in an amphitheater. She felt like an animal all of a sudden, consumed with an urge to splay herself out to him and then eat him alive. With a little growl, she slipped her arm from his shoulder and gave him a light push. At first, he didn’t move but then stepped backwards with an intense concentrated expression. She followed him.

     “Hooper?” his deep voice questioned between kisses.

     She pushed him again. “Holmes.”

     She sucked in his luxurious bottom lip and nibbled on it, her hands were already popping the buttons of his waistcoat apart and pulling his shirt out from his trousers. He grabbed her around the waist and walked back into the nearest sofa.

     “Huh, Christ, this is ill-advised. We cannot copulate in your Uncle’s parlor,” he expunged a heavy breath, “it is the surest route to disaster.”

      Molly didn’t care. She would have him right then and there, or she would die of sexual asphyxiation. She yanked at his belt until it was loose and a second later his pants and briefs hit the floor at his feet.

     “Sit down, Holmes,” she demanded breathily.

     He stretched his neck briefly but he lowered himself to the sofa and stared up at her with anticipation. He pulled at his cravat. His pupils expanded until his irises were but thin slivers. Molly hiked up her skirts to divest herself of her drawers. She didn’t have the most coherent plan but Holmes had shown her that it was possible to be intimate in more than one way. When she looked at him again, he stroked his shaft with a heated look in his eyes, a look that told her she was on to something. She shimmied out of her stockings, her face ever warming, and stepped forward with her dress wadded up around her waist. Carefully, she straddled him one knee at a time.

     “You are a wicked girl,” Holmes growled as his hands slid up the sides of her thighs.

     She sucked in a shaky breath as she leaned closer to him. “Do . . . do you really like my being aggressive, or is it unbecoming?”

     His slightly calloused hands cupped her rear.

     “Oh I do like this,” he leaned forward and kissed the hollow of her throat, “mm, very much.”

     Molly threaded her fingers into his hair, tugged his head back and fell on his lips. Holmes’ submitted to the fervency of her kiss but continued to explore her naked torso beneath her skirts. There was something wonderfully sinful about being almost fully dressed except where she hovered over him. She probed her tongue between his lips again and felt a satisfying little stream of tingles when his mouth opened and invited her in. The moment she lapped his tongue, he shuddered beneath her and she felt his stiff rod twitch on her leg.

     “Can I touch you?” she whispered.

     “Yes,” he panted, “oh, God, please do.”

     She reached between them and gripped his manhood. Her thumb brushed over the tip and a slick bead of moisture wetted her print She felt the excited flesh grow even harder in her hand. Her fingers explored its considerable length to where it rooted to his body. It was an amazing piece of anatomy, so buttery soft on the surface like the finest cashmere, yet it was stiff as a broom handle. She swallowed another moan from the man beneath her with a tongue-clashing kiss. Every sound he made as she ran her hands up and down his length and over the ripples of veins caused her sex to flush. It was erotic and addictive to elicit such a reaction from him, to have this dangerous man completely under her control.

     “Hu-uh, hell, Hooper,” he rasped, “I need you. Put me out of my misery.”

     Molly shifted her hips and positioned herself over him. “You need me?”

     His hips jerked upwards when she rubbed him against her damp cleft. “Christ, yes!”

     She paused, reveling in the torture she was putting him through until a heavy exhalation escaped his throat. Then she relaxed her legs and let her weight sink down on him. Even as wet as she was for him, it was a snug fit. She bit her lip to prevent a satisfied cry as he gripped her hips and pushed upwards into her body. The stretch of his penetration burned a little and she felt a dull ache, like a bruise from their encounter the previous night. However, as his thickness traveled inwards and eventually reached her depths, there was no lancing pain like there had been when he breached her maidenhead.

     “Mm, unh,” she mumbled, “Sherlock, you undo me.”

     His frame shook “Molly, Molly . . .”

     He jerked his hips upwards, thrusting into her so deep, she could swear she felt him near her spine. As she seated on him, his fleshy bollocks pressed against her posterior. His hips shifted again but she pushed her hands onto his shoulders.

     “Allow me,” she murmured as she raised herself up only to slide back down.

     He grunted and cursed as if in pain. She repeated the movement until she found her rhythm. Over and over, she guided herself up and down on him, her pace ever increasing. In the midst of it, she pinned his wrists on the top of the sofa. At one point, she had to let go and cover his mouth when he cried out.

     “Shush,” she panted, “do you want to be discovered?”

     “I do not bloody care,” came his muffled replied against her lips.

     Molly’s body involuntarily clenched on his erection at the gruff sound of his voice. Holmes flopped his head back and swore again. She gulped in air. He had her so excited that the little pleasure point between her legs had ballooned to a raging inferno. She clutched his wrists and ground her hips against him to increase the pleasurable ache. Her core was hot and slick with need. When he shuddered with pleasure again, she felt it all the way up into her body. That little vibration pushed her over the edge. She felt as if she were a tumbling mass picking up speed.

     “Sherlock, ummm, I-I cannot continue much longer.”

     “Do not,” he exhaled heavily, “come for me, Molly. I want to feel it.”

     Molly whimpered and plunged back on him. She let go of him and bit her knuckle as she erupted. Her ache exploded and radiated outwards. Little spasms caused her inner walls to pulsate on the keen flesh inside her body. Holmes took over thrusting into her as she savored her orgasm.

     “Molly,” he pinioned up, “unh, be prepared to lift off me . . . I am nearly there . . .”

     A couple of more savage thrusts and Holmes urged her from his lap. She just released him in time to see fluid spurt from the end of his slick manhood. The jets of milky liquid coated her inner thigh and stained her skirts. She couldn’t help thinking how close they had been to letting him bathe her insides with his seed.   

     “Unh, huh,” he gasped as he twitched, “hell.”

     Molly felt his arms wrap around her. He kissed her and leaned his forehead against hers. She hugged him as his body’s convulsions quieted. Holmes squeezed her back tightly. She gave him a quick peck on the nose. They held one another for a few minutes as their breathing returned to normal. Then, Holmes raised his chin. She gazed at him, fully enamored by his visage. His features were slack and glistened with a sheen of sweat. A damp curl fell over his forehead. His eyes darted back and forth as he studied her face.

     “Molly-”

     There came a banging at the parlor doors. His eyes rounded. Molly’s breath caught. They scrambled off the sofa. Holmes jerked his pants up as she attempted to rearrange her dress. Her uncle called out for them. Before Molly could find her drawers, the doors began to slide open. She spied them as she spun and kicked them under the sofa just as her Uncle appeared between the two massive sliders. She felt her face twist into a grimace as she realized they were caught. Holmes was still stuffing his shirt into trousers even as Uncle Mike stepped into the room.

     His lips pressed together in a thin line when he saw the two of them. “I see I left you two alone a little too long.”

     Holmes hurried to explain but her uncle held up his hand. His eyes flicked to Molly and away again.

     “As clever as you are, Holmes,” he sighed, “I do not think even you are creative enough to produce an acceptable excuse for this scene.”

     Molly glanced to Holmes. His face was flushed pink. He pushed his hair back on his head. He opened his mouth to reply but then made a face and clapped it shut again.

     “Uncle-”

     “My dear, please save your breath, this situation has only one resolution,” he raised his brows pointedly at her partner in crime, “is not that right, Holmes? One does not need to be a genius to sort this out.”

      The detective dipped his head like a scolded schoolboy. “I-Indeed, Dr. Stamford. No, in fact, one only needs to have been very stupid to believe in any other inevitability.”

    


	19. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting along!

     “Ah, Watson, do come in.”

     Molly fidgeted as Dr. Watson doffed his hat and stepped into the parlor of 221B Baker street. He was outfitted in his standard brown tweed suit. He nodded at Holmes before he noticed her sitting next to Mrs. Hudson on the client sofa. He did a double take, his eyes lit and a smile tweaked his lips. She inhaled a fortifying breath. She hoped he would still be pleased to see her once they revealed the purpose of his summons.

     “Good day, Miss Hooper,” he dipped his head, “and a good morning to you, Mrs. Hudson.”

      Mrs. Hudson returned a cheerful greeting and offered him tea. Molly watched Holmes as he swept back to his green leather chair and sank into his seat. Her detective wore a fine worsted wool suit in a sable-coloured glen plaid pattern. Beneath his blazer was a perfectly tailored grey-gold paisley waistcoat with a matching cravat knotted at his throat. The entire outfit was an impressive feat of tailoring and Molly’s heart beat excitedly for the care he had taken in dressing for their announcement. She hoped she looked half as good in one of her new frocks, a darker carmine day dress.

     “Where is Mrs. Watson?” Holmes inquired as the doctor settled into his opposing chair.

      “Mary sends her apologies,” Dr. Watson’s features strained somewhat, “she is attending another one of her rallies.”

     “Mm, that should make this slightly less painful,” Holmes murmured, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair.

     Molly shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. There was a strange, anxious energy pulsing beneath his skin and his face was flushed. She was nervous herself but felt a bit hurt by his choice of words. Dr. Watson sought clarification.

     “Ah, what was that?”

      “Nothing, never mind. My dear Watson and Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes began unceremoniously with a nod to each without making eye contact, “let us first dispense with the perfunctory part of our business today. Miss Hooper and I are to wed in three weeks’ time. Watson, I will require you to stand up for me, of course. Mrs. Hudson, you may need to make some arrangements for Mo-, I mean Miss Hooper to move in to Baker Street, though I cannot fathom what those might be. Perhaps she will need . . . a trunk or something?”

      Holmes glanced at Molly with brows raised. She frowned at him with tight lips while Mrs. Hudson gasped at the news. He looked down a second with his own lips turned down. After Holmes had handled her uncle so calmly the previous night and talked him into a proper wedding as opposed to an almost immediate ceremony, Molly thought that Holmes might actually want to be married. However, it was becoming evident that this might not be the case. Disappointment in the speedy manner of his announcement stiffened her shoulders. His vivid blue-green eyes narrowed and a confused wrinkle appeared between them as he appeared to note her changed demeanor. They squared off for a few moments. Molly struggled to keep her lip from quivering. Dr. Watson began coughing.

     “E-E-Excuse me? You are getting married?” He sputtered.

      Holmes’ brows flinched, he squinted at her briefly as if trying to better read her thoughts but then his gaze slid away. “Yes, however, that is not our most pressing business. I believe you are well acquainted with Dr. Winston at London Medical? We have business there later this morning-”

      “You are getting married,” Dr. Watson’s mouth was still agape.

      “Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson blubbered, “oh, my nerves! What a way to break the news Three weeks? I cannot make this place fit for a lady in three weeks. Miss Hooper, I am so pleased that you will be living here but I am mortified. I mean, the things he keeps in my larder! I am afraid to venture down there . . .”

      Holmes closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as he was inundated by questions from both Watson and his landlady. Molly’s heart sank. She willed back tears. Finally, he seemed to reach his limit and sprang from his chair.

      “Nothing needs to change around here, n-nothing will change,” he growled. “I will be married, that is all. People do it all the time.”

      The room fell silent. Molly tucked her hands back on her lap and sat there as all remaining hope drained from her body. Her skin prickled on her face with the sudden loss of blood. Dr. Watson’s attention fixed on her a moment with some concern. Feeling humiliated by the episode, she angled her head away to avoid his scrutiny. Holmes went on to explain that a public announcement would not be made immediately as Molly first needed to meet his family and complete the qualifications for her medical degree.

      “We need your assistance in this, Watson,” Holmes said simply.

      Molly raised her eyes in time to see a livid Dr. Watson glowering at Holmes. His eyelid fluttered beneath a heavy brow. A muscle hardened along his jaw.

      “Yes, of course, I find myself very keen to come to Miss Hooper's aid.”

            *   *   *

     Two hours later, Molly ran her fingers over her faux mustache in a corridor of the men’s London Medical College. She hated the way the strip of hair clung to her lip, she resisted the urge to yank it off. The glue had shrunk and the base of the disguise pulled tight on her skin. As if that annoyance wasn’t enough, several wayward bristles stuck up into her nostrils. 

     “Ugh,” she wheezed, “how do men stand having facial hair, Dr. Watson?”

     She looked sideways at John Watson in his simple brown, wool suit and dark brown derby. His authentic mustache twitched as he poked his lips out before speaking. He hesitantly turned and blinked at her several times.

     “I . . . I do not even think about it, to be honest. It is just sort of there, Miss Hooper.”

     She nodded. She took a deep breath as his focus returned to its original mooring. Dr. Watson’s eyes were larger than usual as he gazed towards the far end of the corridor at the men’s medical college where Holmes conversed with an acquaintance. The small doctor's expression had remained semi-shocked since their impromptu meeting at Baker Street. Molly had gained a new appreciation for Dr. Watson. While she always knew he was a good man, his ready agreement to take part in Holmes' scheme to secure her a degree had been genuinely humbling. She wanted to tell him as much but the words stuck in her throat. How did one adequately thank a person for something so selfless? Before she was able to rally, he shook his head and smiled.

     “Miss Hooper, forgive me, I think I neglected to congratulate you earlier.”

     She inhaled a quick breath and glanced down at her grey clad, trouser-ed legs. “Oh, well, Dr. Watson, I think we both know this is not that sort of engagement.”

     He shuffled indecisively and then stepped closer. He opened his mouth twice before finally settling on what he wanted to say.

     “I must explain my friend,” he murmured, “h-his manner this morning . . . I- you see, damnit, I have known this man a long time. If he seemed-”

     Dr. Watson clapped his mouth shut as a shadow loomed. Molly glanced up to see Holmes approach.

     “Dr. Kitting informs me that these finals should not take any more than a week and a half,” he informed her, “but you will have to perform a surgery.”

      Watson's brows hiked again. “Do they teach surgery at your old school, Miss Hooper-?”

      Holmes cursed quietly. 

      “For the hundredth time, address her as Mr. Hooper while we are here,” he hissed, “and Hooper, stop fidgeting!”

     Molly gazed up at Holmes anxiously as her fingers dropped from her mustache. She felt her glued-on disguise droop.

     “Bollocks, I think this has come loose,” she mumbled.

     She tapped at the corner of her faux mustache but it flapped over the edge of her lip. She fanned her face and licked her lips nervously. Holmes sputtered a sigh and grabbed her by the shoulders. He peered down at her with a frown.

     “Yes, it has lifted,” he muttered, “Watson, do you still have that glue?”

     Dr. Watson fished a small bottle from his pocket. Holmes glanced quickly up and down the corridor of the men’s college.  Then, he hastily unscrewed the lid of the small vial and pulled out the brush. Dr. Watson kept watch while Holmes nudged her chin up with his knuckle. He painted a bit of the glue on the corner of her lip. Then, he pressed the loose end of her mustache down with intense concentration.  He stared down at her for several moments with an odd expression. Molly thought he almost appeared a bit satisfied; proud even. Her insides quivered. The man had a way of making her feel as if they were the only two people in the whole world at any given instant.

      “This will never work,” she complained in a hushed tone, seeking his reassurance, “the dean will know I am a fraud the moment I step into his office. What if he remembers the name Hooper from Dr. Watson’s column?”

     Holmes scoffed but his tone softened. He brushed back a wayward lock from her wig.

     “These are educated men. No one here reads Watson’s stories.”

     “You would be surprised!” Watson grumbled.

     “I would,” Holmes smiled cheekily at him before giving her a gentle shake, “now, do shut up, Hooper, before you lose all your nerve.”

     “Holmes! That is no way to talk to a lady,” Dr. Watson whispered harshly as he leaned closer.

    The detective rolled his eyes at his friend. “She is not a lady, she is . . . Hooper and again, that is Mr. Hooper to you!”

     Molly groaned. “I thought I was Surgeon-Lieutenant Hooper.”

     Dr. Watson fluttered his lashes as he thought about her comment. “Actually, she is right, Holmes. If she was a member of the Medical Staff Corps alongside me during the war and my assistant to boot, that is exactly the title she  . . . I mean, h-he would have had.”

     Holmes exhaled noisily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but the story goes that our Mr. Hooper is supposed to have been medically discharged due to a weak heart. No retired junior officer would ever insist on formal address.”

     The small doctor twitched his head sideways and scratched his temple as he thought about that. “I would not say that. It is kind of a grey area, especially if the officer was decorated-”

     “Would anyone care to fill me in on my supposed backstory?” Molly cut in with a sigh. “It might be prudent for me to know who the hell I am claiming to be.”

      Both men snapped their focus in her direction but before anyone could speak, the heavy wood door to the office they stood outside creaked open. All three of their heads swiveled towards the opening occupied by the heavy set dean, Dr. Henry Winston. He raised his brows at them expectantly and when none of them moved, waved for them to enter. They murmured greetings like naughty school children and then, for some reason, they all decided to move at the same time and jammed up in the door. Holmes cursed. Dr. Watson muttered an apology. Molly suppressed a snort.

        Holmes poked her gently in the ribs. “Remember your instructions, Mr. Hooper.”

        Molly elbowed him in return and did her best to recall every lesson imparted on her from her two companions during their journey to the college. She trailed after Dr. Watson with Holmes at her back. Her stomach twisted in knots.

     _“. . . refrain from speaking. If you must speak, lower your voice several octaves. Pepper your replies with curse words, but not too many. Pretend to adjust yourself when you sit down. If anyone stares at you for too lengthy a time, scowl and lift your chin as if to challenge them. Be assertive. Enter every room with purpose as if you are the conductor taking a podium . . .”_

Molly frowned as she thought about the last directive. She tried to imagine a maestro and jauntily stuck her hand on her hip while she swanned out her other arm. As if reading her mind, Holmes bumped the back of her heel with his toe.

     “Not like that,” he laughed under his breath.

     She dropped her arms. Heat rose up her neck. She watched as Dr. Watson took one of the two seats in front of the dean’s large, ebony desk. The dean’s work space was quite different than at her mentor’s nook at her women’s college. Everything was crisp and clean and sterile, like a banker’s office. The only decorations on his white walls were contrasting dark chair rail and crown moldings and his numerous diplomas. On the top of his massive desk were just three items; a small gilded clock, a stained glass lamp and an ornate crank telephone. Molly’s heart raced. How was she going to pull this off? She wasn’t sure if she should take the remaining chair but then the dean nodded for her to sit. She sat down stiffly and popped open a button on her blazer. Holmes’ advice reverberated between her ears again.

_“. . . sit with a wide stance. Men spread their legs.”_

_“Yes, yes they do! Why is that?”_

_“Um, ahem, it is for comfort.”_

_“Oh,” Molly blushed, “then you must spread your legs very wide when you sit.”_

_“Behave, Hooper!”_

_“What is she talking about, Holmes?”_

_“Never you mind, Watson.”_

     Recalling those directives, Molly relaxed back into her seat and careful to put some distance between her knees. It was infinitely more comfortable, especially considering the rolled up stocking in her drawers. She cleared her throat and adjusted its position. The dean’s eyebrow rose and his nose wrinkled.

     “Not long out of the military, are you, son?”

     Molly’s flesh flared instantly as she attempted a deep voice. At her side, Dr. Watson choked on a laugh. 

     “Erm, just a few months," she said in her lowest voice.

     She pressed her lips together and braced for his reaction. This was the moment, she thought, this was the instant of her undoing. However, he shrugged.

     “Well, this is all a formality, of course,” he began, “I have received your papers from the Madras Medical School in Chennai and they appear to be in order. Yet, I am somewhat confused. Why did you not decide to return there to finish your degree?”

     Dr. Watson cleared his throat. “Erm, if I may, Dr. Winston? Mr. Hooper served with me years ago. When he ventured home to England to recover from what I suspect was Malaria, he sought me out and has since become my patient. The Malaria weakened his heart, you see. I advised against his return lest he find his health imperiled again by another bout of tropical illness.”

     The dean nodded. “I understand. Though, will your health hinder you I wonder, Mr. Hooper? A doctor’s work is sometimes strenuous, as you should know. Very strenuous indeed.”

     Molly dipped her head. “I assure you I am fit enough. Medicine is my calling, Dr. Winston. I do not think I will survive without it in my life, to be honest.”

     The dean bobbed his head again. “Alright, young man. Why pathology? Why not a gentle country practice delivering babies and stitching up wounds?”

     His question surprised her and for a moment, she struggled for the right words. Then, her parents’ faces swam before her eyes. Her voice was rough when she spoke.

     “I suppose . . . when one has faced death as I have, it holds a certain fascination. I believe this is where I will make my best contribution, Doctor. I am certain that a clear understanding of death will help me better assist the living.”

     From there, the conversation went better than Molly had expected. The dean outlined the exams she would take and described the surgery she would be tasked to perform in front of no less than himself and the four top instructors at the institute. Not for a moment did he appear wary of her costume, however. In the end, Holmes had been right.

 _“People see what they want to see, Hooper. They will note your slight frame and think you an odd fellow, but they will see you as a man,"_ his words echoed in her mind.

      Molly couldn’t help how absurd it all seemed yet perfectly sensible at the same time. She might have to practice medicine disguised as a male for the rest of her life, but truth be told, there was an upside in that male doctors were automatically afforded respect compared to female physicians. Not to mention, no one would question her belonging in a morgue if she were a man. Holmes had found a way to make her free. Whereas, it seemed she had entrapped him into an engagement he did not want.

     She sneaked a glance at her fiancé’s handsome profile. Molly Hooper might not have options but Mollinford Hooper, graduate of London Medical College, could go anywhere and do anything. She decided right then that she would not marry a man who did not want her, no matter how much she loved him. So, she would play along for now. She would meet his parents, get her degree and then cry off their engagement as soon as her next monthly cycle came around. In the meantime, she would be sensible and resist copulating with him again. She could do that, she told herself.

     How hard could it be?


	20. The Renegade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp, what can I say? Time is a luxury as of late but never fear. I have no plans to abandon this or any of my works in progress. This will be fun yet, there will be more smut, You should be excited to meet someone by the end of this chapter.
> 
> Cheers!

     Lestrade nodded at yet another expression full of trepidation. An older Asian gent, his face covered with grime from a hard day’s labor, averted his eyes and stepped closer to the nearest brick wall as the officer passed. Greg sighed. Above him, the sky swirled with layers of grey clouds. He was lost down another narrow street in the east end of London in the modest heart of Chinatown and quite removed from any shops even the most adventuresome Limey might decide to visit. He could be in Singapore for all he recognized the area and that made him feel rather foolish. This was London, his London. He should know every corner of the city and yet he hadn’t bothered to get to know this community before.

     However, he couldn’t say anyone living within a half-mile radius had ever given him a reason to visit. They weren’t particularly bothersome and generally, didn’t call upon Scotland Yard for assistance. He didn’t blame them one whit. Most of the men he worked with treated immigrants with either indifference or outright contempt. He stopped in his tracks and glanced back over his shoulder at the fatigued man trudging away. Greg knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere by keeping to himself. He needed help. The Inspector skipped back towards him and quickly removed his cap. The man’s eyes widened as he approached. The poor fellow then looked around wildly as if he wanted to scramble away.

     Lestrade cursed and waved his hands in capitulation. “No trouble, no trouble! Sorry, sir, erm . . . I am looking for  . . . erm, just a tick . . .”

     He fished his notebook from his pocket and flipped to the appropriate page. The man seemed to relax a bit and gazed at him in curiosity. Someone bumped by the Inspector’s back and jostled him making him feel even more foolish.

     “It is a shop run by, erm, not sure here . . . Mrs or Miss? In any event, her name is D-Dolma Shilog and her store is called the – ah – Blue Poppy? Does that sound right? Wait - _Utpal Ngonpo_ is what I have written here. Blue Poppy, Utpal Ngonpo? Sound familiar?”

     The man raised a brow and hiked his bag up on his shoulder. He then scrutinized the Inspector with bright eyes.

     “I know the shop,” he responded in a wary, lightly accented tone, “why do you seek it? You after opium? You will not find it there. Dolma is a good woman. She does not sell it.”

     Lestrade shook his head. “No, no, I . . . am just looking f-for . . . a friend.”

     The man leaned closer and tilted his head in suspicion. “A friend?”

     Greg swallowed. “A redheaded friend.”

     The man’s eyes popped open. Then he wagged his head back and forth in mirth. A smile spread across his face.

    “Ah, the daughter,” he mumbled and then started chuckling, “I thought you said you were not looking for trouble.”

     The Inspector shrugged. “I just need to speak with her, that is all.”

     The man continued to laugh in a raspy voice. The he pointed down the lane with his long finger and its swollen knuckles.

     “You are in the wrong path, my friend,” he waved towards the right, “a hundred steps in that direction there is a passage between the buildings that leads to a lane. Go to the end of the passage, turn left, and in another hundred steps you will see a red door with a brass knocker. Do not rap the door, just go in and you will find the mother in the back.”

     Greg thanked the man. They proceeded to walk in opposite directions before the Inspector thought of something. He called back to the fellow.

     “Red door?” He frowned in confusion. “Why not a blue door? You know, if it’s the Blue Poppy?”

     The man only laughed and waved dismissively before turning away. Lestrade returned his notebook to his pocket and hurried towards the passage. On his way, he passed in front of a shop brimming with barrels of strange goods and suspended meats. His steps slowed. His mouth began to water from the intriguing aromas. His stomach growled and he eyed a bunch of dried sausages hanging in the window to one side. At the same moment, a middle-aged woman appeared at the entryway sweeping out a cloud of dust. She looked quickly from him to her sausages.

     “It is Lap Cheong. Very good. Do you want to try?”

     Lestrade was gripped with bashfulness but nodded. She smiled. Her eyes crinkled at the corners.

     “Two for a half-penny.”

     A bargain! Just like that, the Inspector was on his way again munching on a kind of sweet yet savory cured sausage. Then as if that one purchase had been a rung bell heard the length of the street, he suddenly found himself being solicited for all manner of goods as he made his way to his destination. Not wanting to offend any of the storekeepers, he purchased a bag of what looked like dried sardines, a small, painted tea pot and little jar of brackish liquid from a very old man who had kept wagging his brows and promising ‘vigor’. Finally, having spent all his pocket change, he escaped to the passage and over to the lane he sought. He had to step around all sorts of crates and other items stored behind the shops but soon found an ornate crimson door with decorative brass straps and a circular brass knocker adorned with a long tassel.

     Lestrade paused in front of the door a moment and wrestled with the urge to knock. With a deep inhalation, he followed the advice he was given, pushed open the door and made his way inside. Above him, bells jangled an alert. The shop itself was no more than ten feet wide with two narrow aisles of goods crammed onto wooden shelves that went all the way to the height of the twelve-foot ceiling. He peered curiously at statues of a jolly, rotund figure in bronze and stone next to a examples of a more sanguine figure kind of praying. A woman calling in a language he did not recognize hailed from somewhere in the rear.

     “Tah-shi-de-leh!”

     “Right,” Greg muttered to himself and picked up his pace.

      He felt his heart rate increase as he finally spied a matronly looking woman with ginger hair that had started to grey. She was garbed in a plain brown and red layers that kind of wrapped her body like a robe with beads that hung from an embroidered gold and red sash at her waist. When she looked up, her eyes rounded.

     Lestrade removed his cap again. “Hello, there.”

     She nodded.

     He cleared his throat. “A-Are you Dolma Shilog?”

     Again the woman nodded. She hastily spoke a few words in her own tongue again and mumbled a broken apology. Greg got the feeling she wasn’t particularly comfortable with English. She put down a colourful tapestry she had been stitching and held up her hand. She leaned over and called out towards a set of stairs leading to the next story. A different, younger female answered and came thundering down the steps. Lestrade’s heart rate sped up to a frantic patter as he instantly recognized the red-headed girl who had accompanied Sally Donovan to her séance. She was dressed in a similar manner to her mother except with what looked like a multi-hued geometric patterned smock. She froze wide-eyed on the bottom step for a few seconds before whirling in an attempt to rush back upstairs. Her mother stomped her foot and barked out a few strong syllables.

     Lestrade watched her shoulders slump. She faced forward again with a sheepish look on her face. Slowly, she approached him wringing her wrists.

     “G-Greetings, Inspector Lestrade,” she stammered.

     He glanced back and forth between the pair of women. Their red locks kept catching his eye. He had never seen a redhead who didn’t have a bit of Scot or Irish in them. Upon closer inspection, the daughter wasn’t as old as he had thought. She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.

     “Sorry, what was your name again, Miss?” He asked as he once again retrieved his notepad.

     “Tenzin,” she said simply.

     “Tenzin Shilog?” He said to himself as he jotted down a few notes.

      She crossed her arms. “No, our names do not work that way. I am Tenzin Rinchen. See, we . . . well, it is complicated. In any event, how may I assist you, Inspector?”

      Greg smiled tightly. “Oh, I think you know very well how you might help me, Miss Rinchen. Where is Miss Donovan?”

     Tenzin’s mother interrupted them with a hasty question for her daughter. She looked quite cross. Tenzin shushed her mother. Her face turned pink, though. They exchanged a few terse words. Then the older woman gesticulated pointedly towards the stairs. The younger woman glanced nervously in that same direction. Lestrade sucked in a breath. Could it be that easy? Had his medium been hiding out in Chinatown? Was she above him at that very moment? He interjected himself into the women’s bickering.

     “Miss Rinchen, you listen here,” he wagged his finger, “I will not hesitate to arrest you this very instant on suspicion of harboring a fugitive so you had better tell me what you know-”

     The floorboards above them creaked and someone began their descent from the upper floor. One by one, each wooden stair protested in a squeak. Lestrade felt his pulse beat in his neck as if there were a bird flapping beneath his skin. His breaths quickened as he first observed pale-blue satin slippers followed by sapphire skirts. When Sally herself finally emerged with a wide blue ribbon tied around a knot of braided hair on the top of her head, he thought he might expire from exaltation. A sort of relief also flooded through his frame even though she glowered at him.

     “Leave them out of this,” Miss Donovan bit out, “it is me you want, no?”

     Greg’s mouth snapped shut. He swallowed.

     “Y-Yes, Miss Donovan,” he stuttered.

     Sally hastily asked Tenzin and her mother to leave them. The two women reluctantly bustled away with the elder seemingly haranguing her daughter. Sally sighed, crossed her arms and leaned against the coarse wooden sales counter with an expectant look upon her brow.

     “How did you find me?”

     Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and slunk back against the counter next to the slight woman. He looked over and suppressed a grin. He rather liked being a fair bit taller and broader than her.

     “I am a detective and not without my own skills and believe it or not, Miss Donovan, red-headed Chinese women are not all that common in London.”

     She rolled her eyes towards him. “They are no more Chinese than you are American, you daft cock. Dolma and Tenzin are from Lhasa in Tibet.”

     Greg felt his skin heat. “Well, erm, I am not completely wrong. Tibet is still under the control of China so technically; they are Chin-”

      Sally snorted. “I dare you to refer to them as such in their presence.”

     The Inspector sighed heavily. “Alright, alright, look, we both know why I am here. So, are you going to talk about the Clairmonts or am I going to have to arrest you again?”

     She pushed away from the counter with a huff. Then, she peered over her slender shoulder at him and her countenance changed. Suddenly, she seemed a lot more relaxed and her eyes hooded. Her skirts swept in a swoosh as she spun.

     “Such determination. Such commitment to this pursuit! Yet, I feel my involvement with those people is but an excuse to find me. What do you really want, Inspector?” She murmured.

     Lestrade shot up as she moved closer. “What? Nothing! I mean, I just want to help you, Miss Donovan.”

     She let her head sway sideways. “What makes you think I need your help?”

     He gulped as she stepped even nearer. “You a-are in trouble.”

     Miss Donovan laughed in a low, husky tone. “This is not new.”

     In the next second, she stood toe to toe with the Inspector. Greg’s lips felt a bit numb and flabby on his face as he stared down at her eyes the colour of warm topaz. She raised a dark brow and her plush lips tweaked into a smile.

     “I do not think you want to rescue me, officer.”

     He licked his lips nervously. “No?”

     Her gaze flicked over his face.

     “No, indeed, I think you want to join me.”

          *   *   *

     Molly felt the compulsion to lift her gaze again. Across the expanse of the Holmes’ family’s grand parlor pale blue-green eyes regarded her intently from the brooding male seated in a pecan-leather wing back chair. She found herself mesmerized by his slightly narrowed focus. Warmth spread up from her chest into the flesh of her face. Her cheeks prickled with the strength of her reaction. She was not sure if Holmes was irritated, incensed or just lost in thought.

     She inhaled unsteadily. Her nerves were shattered. She had never been so stressed in her life. From the moment she had taken in the spectacle of Holmes’ family residence glowing like a pink temple in the waning coral and gold light from the setting sun, she had felt in over her head. She could still hear the way her uncle had whistled when he initially gaped the five story town home with its heavy quoin blocking, rows of arched dormer windows and terrace supported by columns on the second level.

_“Lord, I knew they were heavy in the purse,”_ he’d mumbled as he smoothed his hands down the front of his white waistcoat, _“but I dreadfully underestimated the burden of their wealth.”_

     Molly only gurgled.

    _“Well, what do you think, my dear? Is it posh enough for you?”_ Her Uncle chuckled.

     Molly gulped down a rise of panic. _“Th-This is a mistake.”_

     Her Uncle had grabbed her elbow and walked her toward the imposing, mahogany front door. _“Pish! This is a triumph!”_

   After they had finally made their way into the home, Molly was swept away by a furious current in her introductions to the rest of the Holmes. The whirlwind of meeting his parents and older brother was followed up by a multiple course formal dinner. Then, they all retired to the parlor to more casually socialize which was where she found herself at that moment. Fortunately, his mother and father had seemed indifferent to Molly's presence and thus, she sat next to them while they chatted with her Uncle. Of course, they had no idea of her relationship with their son. For all they knew, they were hosting a gathering in honor of their son’s good friend, Dr. Stamford.

     Molly glanced again at Holmes as her Uncle launched into another story. She could not hold his gaze for long. Shyly, she averted her attention to the man seated at the complimentary to her ruminating ‘fiancé’. The rather portly Mycroft Holmes eyed her suspiciously. His eyes flicked to his younger brother and back again. His brows pinched together. Then, he began to speak. Molly's face warmed. Somehow, she knew she was going to be the subject of their conversation in that instant. She clenched her teeth together and stifled a sigh. She would give anything to be a fly on the wall at their backs.

            *   *   * 

     “So, when will we hear the announcement, brother mine?” Mycroft asked lazily across the room and out of earshot.

     Sherlock glowered at him. His fingers steepled together as he relaxed into his seat. His brother swirled the scotch in his tumbler and sniffed the invisible vapors. The rich, brown fluid glinted in the light from the fireplace crackling at their backs. Mycroft appeared to have lost more weight. His face had thinned. He actually had cheekbones.

     “What announcement?” Sherlock returned, equally as unhurried.

     Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. “Your betrothal.”

     Sherlock reached for his glass and held it up with a smirk. He lifted his shoulders.

     “Ah, well, I thought I would allow you to precede with your declaration of intentions. After all, you are the eldest.”

     Mycroft’s lips pressed together as they turned down in a frown. Yet still, a little smile then lit his lips.

     “Indeed. How did you know?”

     Sherlock imbibed in a slug of his drink and shrugged. “You mean, besides the fact that you let the fair Miss Salisbury whip you like an unbroken mule? Let me count the ways! Do not think your continued weight loss, new suit, recent haircut . . . oh, and that receipt for a ring in your pocket has gone unnoticed.”

     The elder Holmes sputtered in his drink and hacked a few coughs. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and checked his pocket. He quickly retrieved and then returned a folded piece of paper to his pocket.

     “Practicing your slight of hand again, I see? Well, shush, you fool, lest you ruin any chance Miss Salisbury has at gaining mummy’s approval!”

     Sherlock leaned over to peer at their mother.

    “Calm yourself, she is not even listening. She is quite engaged by Dr. Stamford’s postulations about London’s spectral bride.”

    Mycroft let out a long breath. “You realize, I did not have a choice, dear brother. Miss Salisbury is determined to ‘save me’. Her actions have put her at risk of ruination. I could not in good conscience allow this to happen. There was only one solution.”

     Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, indubitably.”

     Mycroft snorted. “You are one to speak! At least I have not carried through on any ruination-”

     Sherlock’s face heated. “Christ, follow your own advice and keep it down! As for your lack of extracurricular activities . . . well, that is only because you are likely physically incapable of engaging in any in your current state.”

     Mycroft jerked straight up. He slammed his drink down to the table between them.

     “I am overweight, not dead nor incompetent, and . . . quit deflecting! I will inform our parents in good time about my situation. However, there is no imperative that Miss Salisbury and I wed any time soon. I know the same cannot be said for you. What was the impetus for these hurried nuptials? Is Miss Hooper-?”

     Sherlock rubbed his lips together. “No! That is . . . it would be too soon to determine and unlikely in any event. No, it is Dr. Stamford that forces our hand. He  . . . well, suffice to say, he found us out. We will make an announcement shortly. Hoo-, erm, Miss Hooper must complete her certifications.”

     Mycroft’s brow wrinkled. “You mean to tell me that you do not intend to announce your engagement tonight? Then why the hell are we all here? Uhg, you know how I hate these family gatherings.”

     Sherlock's lips turned down tightly. “It is a test.”

     Mycroft’s brow hiked. “What? What do you mean? A test of your intended’s resolve?”

    Just then, a small commotion drew everyone’s gaze towards the entrance of the Holmes’ family parlor. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the arrival of his younger brother, Sherrinford Holmes.

     “No,” he muttered, “it is a test of our little brother’s resolve.”


	21. The Gamblers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what can I say? This chapter has it all. Angst, humor, SMUT, and well, you name it. I hope this was worth the wait and I will try to post the next installment in a shorter interval. Cheers, everyone :)

     Molly rose nervously from her seat on the ivory settee as Holmes’ mother returned with the tall, dapper young man who had only just arrived. She wiped her damp palms on her skirts. Even after an evening of friendly conversation, Mrs. Holmes continued to make her nervous. The white-haired matriarch was sharp and witty and shared her son's ability to take a person apart with her icy-blue gaze. Several times she had asked Molly pointed questions that were not unkind, per se, but cut through her defenses. Of course, Molly had known Mrs. Holmes wasn’t a typical member of the upper class from the moment she had swept up in the most beautiful Lehenga-style red and gold saree. No other woman in the gentry would dare wear such an ostentatious outfit. Molly thought she looked like royalty.

     “Miss Hooper,” Mrs. Holmes beamed as she reached up to pat her son’s cheek, “may I present my youngest? This is my sweet baby boy, Sherrinford Holmes. Sherrinford, this is Dr. Stamford’s niece, Molly.”

     Molly smiled at the lovely exchange between mother and son. Mrs. Holmes had no qualms about flouting convention with a bald display of emotions and it seemed, Sherrinford was not at all discomforted by his mother’s regard. There was real affection there and for a moment, Molly experienced a hollowness in her chest as she thought about her own mother. She’d had trouble for some time recalling the feel of her arms or the sound of her voice. The best she could conjure was a fuzzy impression of her face. Molly swallowed and pushed down her melancholy. When she raised her eyes again, she was caught in the vivid azure gaze of Sherrinford’s jewel-like blue eyes.

     "It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper."

     Molly drew in a shaky breath. “Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

     Mrs. Holmes sputtered a laugh and pushed the pleated end section of her pallu back up on her shoulder. “Oh, my dear Molly, stuff the formalities! You will not scandalize me if you refer to him as Sherrinford, or Sherry, which is my pet name for him.”

      Molly’s face flushed with heat. Refer to him as Sherry? They must be putting her on!

      “Indeed, Miss Hooper, we are a very informal household,” Sherrinford drawled with a broad smile as if he could read her mind, “I would be thrilled to refer to you as Molly in return, or . . . Molls even?”

      Molly wanted to fan her scorching face. Sherrinford chuckled under his breath. He was a complete contradiction to his brothers. She marveled at his amused smile. He was definitely more extroverted and playful than Sherlock or Mycroft. However, there was something in the play of his lips and the reveal of his teeth that hinted at furtiveness. For all his cheerfulness, he did not lack in guile. She felt like the butt of a secret joke.

     She coughed, cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Mm, excuse me, erm, I . . . I suppose you may refer to me as Molly, if you wish. I am delighted to meet you, Sherrinford.”

     He smirked as she emphasized his full name. She knew she could never address him as Sherry. That would be wildly inappropriate. Sherrinford’s attention flicked to her outstretched hand. In the next instant, her shaky fingers were in his and he kissed their tips. She chewed her lip. He was like a young stallion full of pent up energy in the way he shifted his feet. It was disconcerting to be so near him. He was taller than Sherlock by an inch or two and had the same brunette hair that one could never tell was black or just very dark brown. However, unlike his brothers he didn’t bother to slick it back with pomade; in fact, he did not try to tame his hair at all. His longish curls above the closer crop on the sides of his head were unfettered and on the verge of wild. The only thing contained about him was his immaculate black suit, starched white shirt and silver, paisley waistcoat.

     “Molly,” he nodded and released her hand with a wink, “I am so sorry. Had I known a delightful creature such as yourself was visiting, I would have concluded my business much sooner.”

     Molly’s lips tweaked up and she found herself grinning at him in spite of her misgivings.  He was at least as handsome as Sherlock with similar, if not as pronounced, cheekbones and a lean, masculine jawline. She had only a moment to appreciate his winsome face when the light dimmed and she found herself in a shadow.

     “Of what business do you speak, brother?” A deep voice intoned. “Cards? Horses? Dice?”

     Molly’s spine went rigid at the sound of Holmes’ utterance. She felt inexplicably guilty, as if she had been caught stealing the silverware. Sherrinford’s smile hardened as he glanced over her shoulder. His eyes darkened. Mrs. Holmes’ nose wrinkled and a pout jutted out her lip.

     “Seriously, Sherlock-”

     “If you must know, it was a boxing match,” the younger man replied lazily, interrupting his mother’s protestations.

      Sherrinford studied the back of his hand a moment before his brows perked up as if he had a thought. He smiled again.

     “Oh, mm-hmm, yes, this reminds me, Mr. James requested that I enquire when you might return to the ring? He is understandably anxious,” Sherrinford looked pointedly at Molly and winked, “his prize fighter has not been there for weeks! A Sherlock Holmes bout is always his biggest draw.”

     “Oh,” their mother exclaimed and touched a hand to her brow, “I swear you two will be the death of me!”

     Molly finally turned in anxious, halting movements to face her Holmes. Then she blushed as his eyes seared into hers for a split second. Her Holmes? As if! Oh, but what she wouldn’t give to possess his heart and soul. His fierce visage made her heart flutter. With the way his hair was smoothed back over his head and the intensity of his gaze, he looked like a hawk with prey in sight. His hooded blue-green eyes slid from hers and focused on his little brother with disdain.

      “Give my regards to Mr. James,” Sherlock drawled as he lifted his chin with a bored expression on his face, “but inform him that I do not have the time to indulge in such frivolities.”

     Sherrinford started grinning again and chuckled. He glanced slyly at Molly once more. He clucked his tongue.

     “Alright, but, blech . . . sounds boring.”

     Mrs. Holmes nudged her youngest sideways and bustled towards Sherlock. “Enough of that, Sherry, my Sherl has his hands full trying to uncover this murderous bride terrorizing London and I cannot think of anything more exciting.”

     She scooped Sherlock’s elbow and urged him away.

     “Come, my sweet, let us leave these two to become better acquainted. Besides, your father is anxious to posit his theories about the phantom to you,” she peered back over her shoulder for a tick then her eyes slid away, “Sherry, why not show our lovely Miss Hooper about our library?”

     Sherlock’s brows wrinkled. “Mother-”

    Mrs. Holmes was not to be dissuaded. She tugged Sherlock away even though his feet appeared to be glued to the floor. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be led away. In short order, Molly found herself gazing apprehensively at Sherrinford. She felt as if they were being set up. He dipped his head and offered an arm.

     “Come, you cannot leave without having visited our library.”

     She glanced anxiously in Sherlock’s direction. He had a scowl on his face. A muscle was strained in his jaw. She sighed. They had not had an opportunity to speak and it seemed an announcement was not forthcoming. Part of her was relieved that Sherlock had no intention of proclaiming their engagement that evening. She was not yet prepared to play that part. However, she was disappointed that he scarcely exhibited an interest in her presence. Surely, if this was an opportunity for his family to get to know her, they should come away with some sort of understanding that Molly was as much of a guest of honor as her uncle. As of yet, she felt no more consequential to the evening’s events than the pocket watch her uncle had worn.

     “Molly?” Sherrinford prodded.

     She gulped down a lump, took his arm and allowed him to draw her towards the hall. If love was this injurious to one’s self esteem, she pondered, she was glad she had never experienced it before. She hoped she would never be unfortunate to love anyone again. She peaked at the charming Sherrinford. Right then, she realized that she would never again love anyone as she loved her Holmes. He was unique and intriguing in a way this young buck could not hope to be. Maybe this is what people meant when they referred to a woman as being ruined if she laid with a man before marriage. She felt that way in her heart. Holmes had ruined her for all other men.

           *   *   *

     Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at Hooper and his little brother just as they exited the parlor. He felt a tightening between his shoulders. He shouldn’t have crossed the room. Sherrinford would not have failed to understand the significance of that action.

     “Mother,” he grumbled, “is it really a good idea to encourage those two to be alone in the library?”

     His mother’s brow perked up and she squeezed his arm. A smile flitted across her lips.

     “Pfft, I am not worried in the slightest about any shenanigans. Miss Hooper seems to be an exceedingly sensible young lady. Sherry could benefit from some time in her company.”

     Sherlock’s forward momentum failed. He inhaled slowly to find some equilibrium in his abdomen. He cleared his throat.

     “You do not mean to . . .  encourage Sherrinford to take an interest in her-”

     Mrs. Holmes smirked and peaked sideways at her son. “Well, why ever not? I do so yearn for grandchildren, Sherl, and have long since given up on either you or Mycroft fulfilling that desire. Sherry might be my last hope.”

     She clucked her tongue and shook her head ruefully as she directed her attention to where Mycroft appeared to be eyeing a tart. She sighed.

     “I mean, what woman would have my son in that state?”

     “You would be surprised,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

      His mother turned and squinted up at him. “Would I?”

     Sherlock saw an opportunity to escape his mother’s clutches and avoid a painfully droll discourse with his father. He nodded his head in Mycroft’s direction and leaned down with a conspirator-like tilt to his head.

      “Surely you have noticed his recent weight loss, Mother,” he murmured just above a whisper, “and the unusual care he has taken with his attire and grooming. One hears things about town but then you would know the gossip better than I.”

      His mother lifted her chin. She scrunched her face in thought then an idea brightened her eyes. With determination, she pushed at the front of her saree and marched to where Mycroft was just about to stuff his coveted tart in his mouth. His brother startled as she neared and dropped the pastry. Sherlock bit back a chuckle, peaked at his father still deep into a political discussion with Mike Stamford and seized the moment to stroll out of the parlor. He squared his shoulders and straightened his waistcoat. There was no chance he was going to leave his fiancé alone with his philandering little brother.

          *   *   *

     Molly ran her fingers along the spines of a collection of gilded tomes as she awed at a mural framed by intricate French plasterwork high above her head. One could get lost for hours admiring the complex depiction of angels and cherubs frolicking among the clouds. It was breathtaking and had the effect of lightening the entire room. If she closed her eyes, she posited that she might just feel the warm rays of the sun upon her face.

     The Holmes’ library was really a site to see. The finishing was light and airy, pastel sea green and blue with white trim and white plaster like something out of the home of a Parisian aristocrat. The floor between the first and second story had been removed and replaced by balconies that nearly encircled the room. They only ended where twin white spiral metal stairs flanked a massive, arched pink and wine veined marble fireplace. In front of the hearth was a collection of delicate, provincial style furnishings with rose-patterned upholstery atop an ornamental carpet that had hues of green and pink similar to the rest of the room. Beneath her feet was a tiled floor in the same unique marble pattern of the fireplace.

     Then there were the books. Cases of them rose from the floor to the balconies and then above the balconies all the way to the fantastic ceiling. There were so many books that she knew if she were to spend a lifetime within the walls of this glorious space, she would be unable to enjoy them all. She could cry.

     “Worth the visit then?” Sherrinford chuckled at her side.

     Molly nodded slowly and glanced over to where he leaned against a wall with his arms folded. It was a bit unsettling to be in his orbit. His insouciance felt practiced.

     “I-It is an impressive room.”

     He smiled as if he was amused by something. “It suits you.”

     She expunged a breath through her nose. She had more than enough experience with the mannerisms of his brother to know he was up to something.

     “Oh, Lord, can we drop the pretenses? You are not really going to play along with your mother’s matchmaking, are you?”

      Sherrinford laughed. “I will if it sufficiently irritates my brother.”

      She stilled. Then a kind of nervous quiver went through her body. She cast her eyes away and twiddled with her fingers.

     “I, erm,” she spun to hide her expression while she pretended to be interested in the closest bookshelf, “I-I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

     Molly heard a chuckle then felt a presence at her back. A warm breath fanned her neck.

     “Oh, I think you do,” he murmured.

     She jerked around but Sherrinford had already whirled away. He pranced to a console table behind one of the room’s sofas, flipped up the tails of his suit jacket and plunked down.

     “Please!” He scoffed. “You cannot be so foolish to think I would allow you to keep up your pretenses while demanding I drop mine. I will let you in on what is a little appreciated fact in my family. I share my brothers’ penchant for collecting information. I keep up with a particular newspaper column, know most of the hackney drivers in this town by their first name and regularly stop by for tea and biscuits with a certain housekeeper. So, Miss Molly Hooper, you and my brother are . . . something . . . what is that exactly?”

     Molly’s lips turned down. She glanced down at her wrists. She was practically rubbing them raw. Her eyes stung. Then she brought the back of her hand to her nose as she half-cried, half-laughed. Damn, but she felt a little pitiful.

     “To be completely honest, I do not know,” she said sadly.

     “Well, shite, I am sorry I asked,” he mumbled, “I expected better of Sherlock. He is supposed to be the most honorable among us. How disappointing that he would treat you so callously.”

     She glimpsed up to see Sherrinford’s face lined with a frown. He fished a handkerchief from his inside pocket and hurried forward to offer it.

     “Thank-you,” Molly sniffled and dabbed her eyes.

     She disliked getting emotional in front of a virtual stranger but only just realized how stressed she had been over the whole affair.

     “Molly-”

     She cleared her throat and peered up at him. “Sherrinford, I have given you a false impress-”

     Neither of them could finish their thoughts. The library door slammed open so hard a book fell from the nearest shelf with a whack. Their two heads swiveled towards the commotion in unison. Molly’s stomach somersaulted at the sight of Sherlock striding into the room. He looked especially fierce with his contrasting white shirt and ivory waistcoat against his black tails. Of the three brothers, he had been the only one to dress in the de rigueur required of a formal dinner party.

     Sherrinford stepped away. “Ah, brother-”

     Sherlock continued undeterred and went straight for Molly. She felt his hands slide onto her face and in the next heartbeat, his head descended and his mouth sought hers in a wicked press of possession. She grabbed at his lapels to regain her balance, but then all it took was the first pull of his lips for her to completely lose awareness of her surroundings. In fact, she completely forgot they had a spectator. She whimpered against his mouth and kissed him back with trembling lips. She had needed that reassurance.

     Sherlock pulled up slightly after a thorough snogging and stared down at her, panting. His eyes were liquid soft. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks. Only a comment from Sherrinford drew his attention sideways.

     “Leave us,” Sherlock warned in a frighteningly soft tone.

     Molly heard the retreat of footfalls and the soft thud of a door returning to its jam. When Sherlock’s gaze returned, she had a sudden moment of clarity.

     “Oh, y-you . . . you . . .”

     She pushed at him. Frustration tensed her whole frame.

     “Hooper,” he huffed, “I am sor-”

     He stepped back, stumbled over a low ottoman and fell on his posterior.

     Molly hissed in air through her clenched teeth while she watched him hit the floor. Her anger quickly dissipated and she rushed to his side.

    “Holmes?” She cried. “Holmes?”

     With a growl, he sat up and then in a whirlwind of motion, grabbed her and rolled her underneath his heavy frame onto the rug. Their legs were a tangle of skirts and limbs. His hands slid over her arms and crossed them above her head.

      “Holmes,” she whispered as she wriggled beneath him, “you . . . you are infuriating! You ignore me the whole evening-”

      He dipped his head, his attention fixed on her lips. “I assure you, nothing could be farther from the truth.”

      Her belly quivered. She silently cursed his seductive timber.

     “Then you interrupt my exchange with Sherrinford in the unseemliest manner possible.”

     He shifted between her legs. She could feel his excitement through both layers of their clothing. Her sex reacted with a bloom of heat and the decadent sting of arousal. She struggled to resist grinding her hips up.

     “Forgive me for kissing you," he murmured, "my vocabulary failed me for some reason and that seemed the most effective way to communicate my claim over you at the time.”

     Molly scoffed. “You do not own me, Sherlock Holmes!”

     His chest rumbled in a growl. “Oh, I have owned you in every way that counts, Molly Hooper.”

     His lips skimmed by her cheek. Warmth tickled her neck and the lobe of her ear.

     “Do not attempt to deny it,” he murmured, “even now your quim quickens for me.”

     She groaned. “You are a bad man.”

     He nodded and kissed her languidly. His tongue slid along the seam of her lips. He pulled back to hover a hair's breadth away.

     “In the dark, when you are alone, you still feel me, do you not?” He breathed. “You still feel how I stretched you. You still feel the glide of my flesh.”

     Molly closed her eyes. Her inner walls contacted and squeezed as if reliving his plunder.

    “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Holmes!”

     He thrust his hips into hers in a gentle reminder of their rhythm.

     “You have stolen all my quiet moments,” he kissed the tip of her nose and then her brow, “I fear I will never be able to sit and ruminate again without reliving the way your body eased to welcome me.”

      She lifted her head when he tipped his head again and caught his lips. He responded by opening his mouth to her eager ardency and then kissing her back, hard. She hooked one leg around his and arched herself along his frame. Finally, he released her hands to pull her up a bit and in between kisses, loosen some buttons at her back and tug down the collar of her dress. Molly’s fingers went right for the pearls of his waistcoat and then the front of his shirt as their tongues tangled.

      A thought needled its way into her brain.

     “Holmes . . . Sh-Sherlock,” she interjected raggedly, “we are going to be discovered again.”

     “Mm,” he looked up and away, “not if I lock the door.”

      He stood up, shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat and yanked his cravat from around his neck. The halves of his shirt hung apart to reveal his muscled chest and stomach. He licked his lips while gazing down at her with a fiery heat in his eyes. She knew she must make the perfect picture of debauchery. Her dress draped from her shoulders, her skirts were bunched up and her legs splayed apart. She swallowed nervously, raised her eyes to his and saw a challenge in their depths. Without breaking  that eye contact, she leaned back on her elbows and let her legs fall further apart. She was breathless from the effort to stave off the insecure voice that told her to act more modestly. Her cheeks flared with heat. Still, she found her boldness in the desire she saw on his face.

     “I suppose you had better go lock that door, Holmes,” she said huskily.

     She watched his eyes flutter closed for a moment. An inhalation flared his nostrils. Then, he strode swiftly to slide the deadbolt and returned like a man with a purpose. He dropped to his knees and slid his hands up her legs, over her stockings towards her drawers.

      “Ah, I like these,” he murmured as he undid the ties that concealed her femininity.

      Molly held her breath. A cool draft across her nether regions curled her toes. Holmes rubbed his lips together while assessing her with half-closed eyes. A twitch of his brows later, he pushed up her dress as far as it would go and descended to bury his face between her legs. Her lungs burned. She closed her eyes. For an agonizing interlude, she only felt his warm breath waft over her sex. Then he jerked her hips towards him and buried his tongue in her cleft. It probed wet and hot into her womanhood and then stroked up over her most sensitive spot.

     “Aah-huh,” she whimpered, her hips bucked.

    His finger gripped her thighs. He licked up again and flicked at her nub. Shivers lanced down her legs. Her head fell back to the carpet. She smacked her hands to the floor and tilted her pelvis up to receive the glorious teasing. There was something so much more intense about just that part of her being exposed and ministered to by his tongue. The tension in her abdomen built extremely fast. Her knuckle flew to her mouth. He seemed to know exactly what to do to bring her ache to the breaking point. Soon, his tongue work was but a rapid fire of licks that had her begging for mercy.

     “Uh, unh, lord, Holmes,” her whole body shuddered, “please!”

     Before she could release, he was up, unclasped his pants pushed them down. He leaned over her onto his hands.

     “I need your assistance,” he mumbled.

     Molly pawed desperately at his stiff shaft. She closed her hands around its thick mass and rubbed its slick head into her sex. He grunted. His hips pulsed forward. She felt the familiar breach of him and then the addictive pressure of his entry. Her hands left his cock to push his pants down his steely thighs and pull at his tight, curved arse. With a curse, he drove his member into her like a javelin into a target. His swift possession and the raw power of him spreading her yielding flesh, rent a satisfied cry from her lips. He covered her mouth to stifle her pleas and rocked into her body. Hard and fast his strokes came, each one needier than the next. Having already been brought near her completion, she was soon close again. His thrusts and the press of his rigid, rippled flesh as it slid against her cleft and into body was a raw friction that coiled an unbearable knot in her belly.

     Just as she thought the knot couldn’t wind any tighter, it transformed into something more delicate. The petals of it folded in like they were at first closing but then she felt the tremor of his body through his manhood and the vibration of the groans from his chest. She squeezed his bum and concentrated on that bloom. Suddenly, it flew apart and its petals swirled up and out through her body. That heady sensation and the spasms of her insides weakened her hold and she collapsed back as she succumbed to her orgasm.

     “Hell, Hooper,” he muttered, “I. . . I . . .”

    He thrust into her one last time, buckled to his elbows and then his hips were jerking. Inside her, his member first went very hard, then she felt the tiny flexures of contractions from its base into her core. Her fingers stilled on his bum as it too contracted and involuntarily twitched again. Her eyes flew open. She stared up at the mural above her head with eyes bulging from her sockets. Her breath hitched. He had released without withdrawing. She caught her lip with her teeth when the recognition of that set off an echo of release from her sex. Her legs shook. That knowledge did something . . . extra which she knew made her very wicked indeed.

     “Damn, Holmes, we should not have done that,” she whispered.

     His head snapped up. “What? Why?”

     Heat burned her cheeks. “We . . . w-we were not careful . . .”

     His eyes narrowed beneath a sheen of sweat on his brow. “What need do we have of caution? You are going to be my wife.”

     “B-But . . .”

     She didn’t know how to give voice to her misgivings about their relationship and him, and, well . . . everything. It could not be possible to hurt him, could it, she wondered? He shook his head while her tongue transformed into a lump of tar in her mouth. His features took on a mask of confusion when she did not offer anything else. He gazed down at her with a perplexed wrinkle between his eyes. Then he seemed to decide something and withdrew from the circle of her arms.

     An awkward silence followed while they hastily dressed.  Molly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the room’s fireplace. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks were pink and her chest red as if she’d tangled with a burlap sack. However, Holmes appeared determined to leave the room as quickly as possible. His fingers flew over the buttons at the back of her dress before he grabbed her hand and urged her along with him.

     “Holmes?”

     He didn’t respond. In less than a minute, they navigated their way through the house until they were standing at the entrance to the parlor with her uncle and his entire family staring back at them with unblinking eyes. It was as if the ignition of flash powder had caught them all unawares.

     “Sherl?” His mother queried.

     He dipped his head. “I am sorry, it seems I have neglected this announcement too long. Mother, father, I hope this evening has given you a chance to become better acquainted with Miss Hooper and that she meets with your approval. For, I have asked her to be my wife and she has accepted.”

     Their reaction was not at all what Molly expected. His mother’s lips tweaked up and a grin spread across her face until she looked very much like a cat who had caught the family’s canary. At her side, Mr. Holmes snorted a laugh and took a swig of his drink. To their far right, still seated in his chair, Mycroft shook his head and slapped a hand to his brow. Mrs. Holmes cleared her throat, reached a hand up over her shoulder and rubbed her fingers together. Sherrinford stepped forward whilst chuckling, produced a note and pressed it into her hand. With a smug smirk, his mother tucked the money into a fold at her waist.

     Her nose wrinkled in glee as she winked.

     “Engaged, are you? Imagine that.”

    


	22. The Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving plot along, Sherlock digs deeper to solve the mystery of the Phantom bride and the death of Robert Clairmont. Poor Mycroft! Who knew he had feelings? Greg Lestrade is a gentleman. Sally shows a softer side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between updates! Plot-type chapters are always hard to put together and I have woven myself another tricky tapestry here. We do have a mystery to solve!
> 
> Also, I do have to credit a friend for Sally's upcoming reaction. It was inspired by things she has said. I waffled on whether or not to write such a scene but it seemed anachronistic that people would ignore Sally's ethnicity entirely. Also, some people in the Sherlock fandom harbor a dislike of Sally so there is an underlying message in this for them. Alright, just a head's up then - mild trigger warning for a lady being a bigoted old biddy and saying some unpleasant things.

      Sherlock strolled into his brother's favorite room in the Diogenes only to encounter the strange site of Mycroft pacing in front of a dying hearth. The younger Holmes stopped just shy of taking a seat and glanced around. There was nary a biscuit or pastry to be found atop any of the fine tables. He didn't know if he should be relieved or concerned. Whatever bothered his brother was enough to deny him an appetite. The thought caused Sherlock some inexplicable discomfort. Mycroft paused and glimpsed at him over his shoulder. Sherlock bobbed his head, flicked open the buttons on his suit jacket and finally settled into a seat opposite his brother's preferred chair.

      "Have you nowhere else to bring your disquiet, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in a fatigued rasp as he paused to lean on the mantel.

      Sherlock steepled his fingers together under his nose. He bit back his instinctive caustic response and decided he should attempt to be diplomatic. Even though barely a day had passed, Mycroft had a gaunt look about him. His brown suit with its burgundy waistcoat appeared even looser than the previous night's ensemble.

     "Never fear, Brother, it will not become a habit. In any event, I think we will be seeing more than enough of one another in the next while."

      Mycroft snorted a humorless laugh and tapped his fingers on the mantel. "Yes . . . dreadful, this wedding nonsense."

      Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft turned again, his eyes constricted. A perplexed wrinkle set in between his eyes. 

      "Dear me, you do not find it dreadful at all, do you?"

      Sherlock drew in a long breath and drifted off for a few moments. Mycroft was correct in that marriage did not seem so loathsome an idea as it once had. Sherlock thought about the tiny, soon-to-be-doctor who was to become his wife. A smile tweaked the corner of his lips. In fact, it was not at all unpleasant to imagine them working together in the lab he planned to set up for her at Baker Street or having a vigorous debate about the cause of death in one of his cases. Truth be told, even before Watson had married and left his home, Sherlock had felt it lacked something and only recently had he begun to appreciate what that might be.

      "Uhg, heavens, your face," Mycroft muttered, "it is enough to make one nauseous."

      Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his head snapped up. His poorer nature got the better of him.

      "Jealous?"

      "Hardly!"

      Sherlock sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. "My, you seem a bit tetchy. What ails you? Has your Miss Salisbury cried off or something?"

      Mycroft gripped the edge of the mantel. His chin dropped for a split second. Sherlock sat up in his chair. He had not expected that reaction.

      "Has she?" he prodded.

      "As always, your aperture is perfectly set," Mycroft's voice was unusually low, "yes, she informed me of . . . of her wish to be released from our understanding this morning."

      Sherlock felt the skin on his forehead tighten into a frown. Several scenarios played out in his thoughts but none of them made sense. Why would Miss Salisbury, who was so obviously smitten with his brother, call a halt to their nuptials? She had all but forced his hand through her behavior. He could not reconcile her change of heart. He lifted a brow.

     "Did she give a reason?"

     Mycroft sniffed and raised his head. "No."

     "Yet-"

     "Rrraah!" Mycroft lashed out and swept a rack of decorative pipes to the floor. "For God's sake, Sherlock, it is not complicated. Look at me! Sh-She just came to her senses."

     Sherlock shifted in his seat. He had suspected that his brother had developed feelings for Miss Salisbury but he hadn't realized their depth before that very moment. Suddenly, the effects of Miss Salisbury's rejection on his brother were stunningly clear. Mycroft's fingers shook, his skin was sallow, and every breath he inhaled appeared measured. In fact, his brother was consciously forcing himself to breathe. Sherlock marveled at the sight. Mycroft was _heartbroken_.

     Sherlock pushed up from his chair. The feckless Miss Salisbury begged a visit.

     Mycroft spun in his direction. "Where are you going?"

     Sherlock carefully buttoned his jacket and straightened the cuffs. "I am just leaving you with your thoughts."

     "Stop," Mycroft grumbled, "you came here for something. What was it?"

     He straightened and stretched his neck. However, his shoulders remained tense.

     Sherlock's brows twitched together. "I have questions about Robert Clairmont but they can wait."

     His brother's brow arched up. "Still? Have you not determined the killer yet? It seems rather elementary, does it not?"

      The detective in him rolled his eyes. "Does it now?"

      Mycroft pulled a face and twitched his shoulders. "Well, I am not the detective but these kinds of things can almost always be laid at the feet of family."

      Sherlock blew a huff of air out his nose. He pivoted and then his feet began to move. It was his turn to pace.

     "Believe me,” he waved his hand, ”this seems the most logical conclusion to me as well. Even more so now that Mrs. Clairmont has run off to the country with her daughters. However, I have yet to determine a motive nor the identity of the young man who was murdered in their home prior to its Master. He is as much of a ghost as our bride.”

      Sherlock glanced up to see Mycroft rock back on his heels.

    “Do you need a motive to prove family involvement in either of these crimes?” his brother asked.

     Sherlock’s brow arched. Mycroft blinked in contemplation then nodded and sighed.

    “Yes, I suppose you do,” he answered his own question, “I cannot imagine any conviction would be forthcoming with the unanswered questions about an un-dead phantom. She is a clever distraction, this ghost of Mrs Emilia Ricoletti.”

     Sherlock scratched his brow. “Mm hmm, especially with Sally Donovan’s involvement which has added another layer of complexity to this mess and muddies the waters. Then there is Inspector Lestrade-”

     Mycroft sniffed. “Lestrade? What does he have to do with any of this?”

    The younger Holmes rubbed his hands over his face. “Never mind. Forget I mentioned him.”

    Mycroft sighed again. “Yes, I think I would prefer to remain ignorant of his shenanigans lest I be morally obligated to do something about them.”

     Sherlock snorted. “Morally obligated? Well, you still do have some humor I see . . .”

     Mycroft shook his head and finally made his way to his favorite chair. He settled into it with a deep groan of relief. Sherlock held his tongue. It was not so easy to mock his brother and his ill health anymore, not when he was making such an effort to correct it.

     “Alright, let us hash this out now. What do you want to know about Robert Clairmont, Sherlock?”

     Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth. He wandered to the hearth and leaned against the mantle. He suppressed an ironic chuckle at the reversal of their positions.

     “His past,” he narrowed his eyes at the dying embers, “we all have a past, Mycroft; ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day.”

                         *  *  *

    Sally clasped her hands together tightly to mask the quivering of her fingers. She tucked her feet back under her chair. She glanced up again and met the quizzical gaze of Inspector Gregory Lestrade sitting across from her in the small, yet elegant parlor. She still could not believe she had allowed herself to be persuaded into hiding out at his mother's home.

     “Are you alright, Miss Donovan?” he asked with a hint of concern.

     She nodded quickly and cleared her throat. “I am quite well, thank you.”

     Sally averted her eyes when her face flushed. In the passing of a single day, she had turned into a complete ninny and all because this gentleman had called her bluff.

 

_The previous afternoon inside the shop of Dolma Shilog . . ._

      “No, indeed, I think you want to join me,” Sally challenged.

     She let a smile curve her lips. She held her breath as the officer’s gaze flicked down to her mouth and back up again. He did that several times before his eyes momentarily constricted. A mild frown upset his even features.

      “Miss Donovan,” he murmured, his perplexed expression remained, “you do not need to play the seductress with me.”

      Her heart sped up. “Oh? Do I frighten you?”

     He shook his head. “No, but it is quite plain by the look on your face that you are the one who is afraid of me . . . and you need not be.”

     Her chin retracted. “I-I am not afraid.”

    His head tilted and she suddenly felt as transparent as glass.

    “You are a fine actress, Miss Donovan,” he murmured, “but you are acting. Give me some credit, will you? I am ten to fifteen years your senior and have been married before. I know when I am being manipulated.”

     Inspector Lestrade leaned back against the shop counter and folded his arms. Sally retreated a step, uncertain of her next move.  A cold fear crept up her spine. All she had was her façade. Stripped of that, she felt naked.

     “Who says I am manipulating you, Inspector?” she batted her eyes at him in hopes of regaining the upper hand.

     Her brow wrinkled as she watched a smile break out across his face.

    “Oy, yes, I see it now. I am irresistible, hmm?”

     Sally rubbed a hand across her collar. She arched a brow and gave him her best coquettish smirk. Almost as quickly, the smirk fell from her lips when she saw that he found her humorous. Lestrade’s chest shook with laughter.

     “Miss Donovan, I have known temptresses and the kind of woman you are trying to portray. However, you cannot convince me that you are . . . ahem, well, . . . that you are bad in the way you would have me believe.”

      She spun away from him then. Her face was patchy splotches of hot and cold. Damn him!

      “You do not know anything about me or what I have had to do to survive, Inspector,” she spat, “and it would be a grave mistake for you to assume that I am any kind of lady.”

      At her back, she heard a great inhalation of breath and then a long sigh.

       “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps I will come to regret believing that there is more to you than what you present,” his voice was barely audible, “but it would not be a mistake for me to treat you like a lady.”

 

_Back at the present . . ._

      _" . . . it would not be a mistake for me to treat you like a lady."_

     Sally peeked at the officer again. With just those few words, Inspector Gregory Lestrade had proved himself utterly endearing. She blinked at him as she tried to sort him out. Was he really as altruistic as he led on? She kept waiting for a shift, for him to needle at her for information or otherwise demand reciprocation for his help. Yet, any expectations he might have of her did not seem to be forthcoming. 

     She bit the inside of her lip. The more she studied him the more attractive he became with his silvery-blonde hair and open, guileless expression. He looked youthful for his years. It was true that he was at least forty-two to forty four and she was just twenty-nine, but the gulf between them did not seem so large. She'd had to grow up very quickly in her youth and felt much advanced of her years.

      A shuffling caught her attention. She snapped out of her reverie the moment Mrs. Lestrade hobbled into the parlor leaning on her crutch. The matriarch was in her twilight years and time had bent her spine into a permanent curve; however, her eyes were quick and bright. They snapped to hers like a the crack of a hackney driver's whip.

      “Well, is this your friend then?”

      Sally sat up straight. She held her breath. Already, his mother's tone did not instill a great deal of optimism.

      “Yes, Mum,” Lestrade murmured, “yes, this is Miss Sally Donovan.”

      Sally dipped her head.

      A dark brown eye scanned her critically while the other squinted. “You did not tell me she was a teapot.”

      The Inspector slapped a hand to his forehead. Sally let the slur sink in. Her shoulders tensed until she could feel a pang up the center of her back.

     “Mother! Behave yourself.”

     The older woman limped to the room’s small, dusty settee and melted onto it with a huff.

     “Ack, should I call her mulatto? Meh! Cripes, you ain’t a fully steeped teapot, are you though? Someone’s tipped a bit of cream in y-“

      “Mother!” Greg roared as he jumped to his feet.

     The elderly Lestrade waved her hand at him. “Sit down, boy! I am interested in my house guest, that is all. Christ, you don’t mind, do you, child? I am sure you have heard much worse.”

     Sally turned her head and heard the pop of her vertebrae shifting in her stiff neck. Heat seeped through her face. She was mortified, but not because of the insults. Indeed, she had been on the receiving end of countless derisive comments in her lifetime. Her humiliation in that moment was enduring her jaded inner voice hooting and crowing about what a fool she had been. She had lulled herself into letting down her defenses and expecting she would be respectfully received. How could such a woman raise someone as noble as Inspector Lestrade, she wondered?  Something in her snapped.

      "I do mind, mum," Sally retorted in as cool a tone as she could muster, "you liken me to a teapot. You denigrate my existence by comparing me to the undesirable soot upon a kettle. Yes, I am of mixed descent but I am not the product of fractions. I am a whole person; a person as whole and worthy of dignity as you."

      For a moment, Sally held eye contact with the older woman as if challenging her to a rebuttal. The effort left her winded. To her surprise, Mrs. Lestrade's face flushed and she cast her eyes away. The dame fiddled with her cane. Sally glanced towards Lestrade with trepidation. She expected to see agitation or disappointment for her dressing down of his mother, but instead, he appeared quite pleased.

       He brushed his hands over his trousers and stood.

       "Miss Donovan," he held out his arm, "I believe I have made a mistake in bringing you her. Shall we go?"

       In that instant, Sally could swear the shell around her heart cracked and a glimmer along its fractured edge warmed her from within at the look on his face. In fact, she was certain she lost a bit more of her heart to Inspector Lestrade.

       His mother cleared her throat. "Do sit down, Gregory."

       "Mother-"

       "Please, my boy, give an old woman an opportunity to apologize for her foolishness."

       Sally jerked her head towards his mother. She didn't know how she should react to the matriarch's unexpected proselytization. The only thing that prevented Sally from jumping up with the Inspector and leaving was the Inspector himself. Her face flushed at her own thoughts. She wanted Gregory Lestrade to like her and not the 'her' that was this exotic con-artist, but the Sally Donovan who was the child of an aristocrat's daughter and his house manager. A girl who was raised as 'proper' as any English child in Dominica before her mother died in childbirth, her father killed himself and she was abandoned to struggling relatives who could barely afford their own children let alone an extra mouth to feed. She wanted him to like everything about her from the strong willed, creative survivor to the gentler woman within.

      Sally pressed her lips together. A voice that was not her own, her mother's voice, whispered from a simpler time.

       _"Show them your grace so that they might see what they are lacking."_

      "Miss Donovan," Mrs. Lestrade began wearily, "I did not mean to cause you distress. I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive me, if not for my sake then for my son who already suffers enough from the embarrassment of having such an ill-mannered mother."

      Sally considered her words for only a moment, just enough to make her squirm. Then, she forgave Mrs. Lestrade. In the end, she thought about her mother and her own questionable behavior which rendered her far from a saint. She knew very well her mother would find much to be ashamed of in the way she had conducted herself since her passing. So, Sally chose to give Mrs. Lestrade a second chance. Lord knew, she needed all the second, third and so on chances she could procure.

     Also, while she would never admit it, she had nowhere else to go. Word had spread about what she had been up to with the phantom bride and her once stalwart allies were more and more reticent to offer her any support. Her involvement with the Clairmonts and the death of their patriarch had been a line crossed, one in which she could never hope to cross back over. She was a woman marked for death. Perhaps she even deserved to spend her final days in the company of someone who harbored scorn about her existence, she thought pessimistically.

     After all, she was responsible for Robert Clairmont's death as surely as if she had stabbed the man himself.

 


	23. The Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and smut alert and, whoop! Our mystery deepens! HA! I think I've got something fun here. Enjoy!

     Molly rolled her shoulders and rubbed her neck as she walked down the corridor and away from where she had just spent four hours completing a rigorous written exam. She let out a long breath. Despite feeling rather exhausted, she felt good about her performance. She had answered every question and even ran out of space in some sections with her responses. Barring an extreme cock-up on her part, she felt very good about how she had done.

     “Finished so soon, Hooper?”

      Molly’s shoulders tensed. For a few moments, she stared at the double doors at the end of the corridor as she let the sound of Holmes' deep timber seep into her consciousness. Her heart stumbled as she tried to fortify herself. She should just ignore the man at her back and continue out onto the streets of London to sit down at a café unaccompanied for some lunch, she told herself, running away from him would be the most sensible thing to do! She was, after all, dressed in her Mr. Hooper disguise and not even her future husband had any authority over her in that getup. Still, she turned because while she knew consuming a cup of tea by herself might settle her nerves, she also knew that those minutes would pass. Then more minutes would pass and she would find herself at that table very much alone.

     Finally, Molly turned, still off-kilter from conflicts that raged within. She raised her gaze. As always, her fiancé was impeccably attired. Beneath his great coat, he wore a dark green plaid patterned suit, white shirt and deep crimson cravat. When their eyes met, he removed his infamous deerstalker and lifted his chin. Blue-green orbs fixed on her face.

      She cleared her throat and practiced her best male bravado. “Ah, Holmes, good day! What brings you here?”

      Her intended strolled forward with a hard set to his jaw. With every step, her world closed in a little more on her until she found herself in a skewed reality. The bustling halls of the college seemed to quiet and her vision blurred at the edges. His spectre became the whole of her focus. 

     “I thought I might check in on a  _friend_. How are you getting along with your exams?” He asked in a low timber.

      She swallowed. “Quite well, Holmes. Thank-you for your enquiry.”

      For several seconds, they squared off. Molly balled her hand at her side to prevent herself from rubbing her chest. She ached. Her heart had suffered another hairline fracture at Holmes' hands. He had subjected her to the most acute embarrassment she had ever experienced by dragging her out in front of his family disheveled and so obviously compromised. Even though she had been almost immediately embraced by his mother, every half-truth she’d had to spew while planning their nuptials that evening had given to an indigestion that loitered. 

      “This was your last exam, was it not?” Holmes queried, cutting through her tumultuous thoughts.

      “Th-This was my final written examination. I have yet to demonstrate my practical skills.”

      Her intended twisted his hat in his hands. “When will that occur?”

      Molly felt a pinch of pain in her neck as she stiffened. She rubbed her lips together; her faux mustache tickled her lower lip. The date of their wedding fast approached and her fiancé-to-be seemed less and less comfortable with every passing moment. She wondered how great his regrets had become. Were they as weighty as her own, she asked herself? In the last week, he had not visited nor communicated in any other way and her mind had been left to run rampant with doubts.

     “I perform a surgery early next week. Tuesday, to be more specific. Is there something you require of me?”

      Holmes’ head tilted sideways ever so slightly. Light glinted off his pomade and his eyes constricted as they flitted down her form. He looked like a hungry raptor.

      “How does no one see through your disguise, Hooper?” he murmured.

     Molly blinked at the change in subject. Her face went very warm.

     “You explained it very well yourself not so long ago,” she whispered hoarsely, “people see what they want to see.”

     His eyelid twitched.

     “Indeed,” his voice was a low growl, “I am having trouble seeing past the curve of your backside in those trousers.”

     A damn burst within Molly. After a week of nothing, he had no soft words, just his typical, blunt Holmes insouciance .

     “Oh! Arg! You!”

     She glanced around nervously to make sure no one overheard them and then stepped forward. “Holmes! Mind your tongue!”

     He licked that very fleshy aggravator over his teeth. “Hooper, I have not seen hair nor . . .  _hide_  of you in a week. You have not answered any of my messages-”

     Molly frowned. “Messages-?”

     At that moment, several men filed from the classroom nearby griping to one another about the difficulty of their exam. Holmes stepped back and lifted his chin as they strode by. Once they passed, he stretched his neck.

     “It seems we need to converse. Where can we be alone, Hooper?” Holmes muttered under his breath. 

     Her stomach flip-flopped. Oh, she had a mighty need to be alone with him, if only to harangue him for his imperious manner. 

     “Upstairs,” she ground out, “everyone departs for lunch. The stores on the third floor will be empty.”

     Holmes’ eyes constricted slightly. Molly steeled herself against the look of heat in his eyes. He waved his hand.

     “Lead the way.”

     She stiffly brushed past him and continued into the nearest stairwell at the end of the wide corridor. Holmes followed on her heels up the narrow stairs, a strange reversal of the first time she had spent any extended time with the man. Light shone in through the skinny windows through each landing. Three stories they climbed up the sun-soaked, overly warm confines. Her heart pounded in her chest and her airways constricted. Neither condition she could blame on the exercise; nay, it was the hound at her heels that quickened her blood.

     Holmes dogged her onto the quiet third floor and finally, into the farthest store room where row upon row of medical specimens lined the wooden shelves. It was probably Molly’s favorite room in the entire college. The afternoon's rays filtered through the stain-glass windows that ran the length of the top of the room. Depending on where one stood, the jars appeared tinged different colours due to the refraction of the light through the red and orange and purple glass. 

     “Why do I feel as if this is a room in which you spend an inordinate amount of time?” Holmes murmured at her back.

     Molly continued towards the back of the stores and its lab benches made with butcher-block counters. She turned only when she felt as far from the entry and discovery as possible.

     “Perhaps because this is a place where I feel I belong . . . among the oddities.”

     Holmes’ face almost imperceptibly flinched. A muscle flecked in his jaw before he tossed his hat past her onto the counter.

     “Well, you wanted to speak with me?" she chided herself for her too-soft voice.

     His brows twitched. "Yes, several times. This past week I sent you no less than four invites and inquiries but you seemed determined to ignore my overtures.'

      Molly’s brow tightened with a frown. “I have not received any messages from you since I met your family.”

      His lips turned down. For a moment, he regarded her suspiciously.

      She placed her hands on her hips indignantly. “I have not received any missives. If I had, I would not have ignored them, I would most certainly have politely declined every one. I do have some manners.”

      Holmes' lips pulled tight. He appeared to suppress a retort by half-turning away for a moment and shook his head. A stab of guilt pricked her conscience when she saw his Adam's apple bob up and down. 

      “Wh-What do you want, Holmes?”

      He stepped closer, reached up and tugged at her mustache. Her lip prickled as it peeled away. His eyes scanned back and forth across her face.

      “I want . . . I want  _you_.”

       She leaned back on the counter to support herself. The longing in his eyes softened her limbs like butter. Yet still, she wrestled with her irritation with him. The question of whether he sent messages did not change the fact that her life seemed like something he sought to claim, yet had little plans beyond its procurement.

      “A-And now is just a convenient time for you, is it Holmes?”

      He unbuttoned his overcoat and slung it over one of the shelves at his right. Several glass jars clinked together under its settling weight.

      “Now is extremely inconvenient, in actual fact,” he hissed, his lips strained over his teeth while he loosened his cuffs, “in fact, every moment of every day is made inconvenient as of late because all I can think about is  _possessing_ you.”

      Molly felt a flutter deep in her belly.

     “Always, always you speak of me as an acquisition," she replied breathlessly. "T-Tell me, Holmes, what will you do with me once you have me bound up in matrimony?”

     His nostrils flared as he exhaled a heavy breath. His head tilted sideways and his eyes narrowed. He proceeded to unfasten the buttons securing his blazer.

     “Interesting choice of words, Hooper.”

     She leaned forward until she was right under his nose and stood on her toes. “You are an arse, Sherlock Holmes. Stop! Stop _undressing_. We are not going to fornicate in these stores.”

     He tilted his chin down to gaze at her and raised his brows. “No?”

     "Grrr, you do not seem to comprehend how displeased I am with you!"

     His nose wrinkled. "Your indignation is more than apparent, my dear Hooper, but being displeased with me and not wanting me are two very different things."

     Her mouth dropped open. "My god, you are so arrogant-"

     His eyes constricted. "I am not wrong, though."

     Molly stared into his sea-green eyes for several seconds. Then, with a growl, she swore and slung and arm around his neck before mashing their lips together. Holmes crushed her to him and his plump lips devoured hers like she was his first bit of sustenance after a fast. A satisfied groan rumbled from his chest, one she could feel vibrate her to her bones.

      "This, unh, this d-does not mean I am still not extremely aggravated with you," Molly said between kisses, "you are an insensitive, selfish boor at times-"

      A hand slid up her body and slid the wig from her head. Her hair tumbled down her back. 

      "You ascribe unjustified credit to my character," his fingers delved into her hair as he refuted her with a husky timber, "I am, in fact, selfish all the time where you are concerned."

      "Arg, Holmes, mmmf, you are so wicked."

      "Yes, and you, my darling, are my compliment in every way.'

     Then, his fingers were buried deep in her tresses and massaged her scalp. She opened her mouth at the probe of his tongue and let it slide inside. Instantly her insides liquefied at the smooth friction of his strong, fleshy tongue rolling around hers. As she reveled in his debauched thrust and parry, he deftly tugged her shirt from her trousers with his free hand and unfastened the buttons of her waistcoat and tailored shirt. She trembled as long, elegant fingers caressed the binds over her breasts and then down over her quivering belly.

      "God, Hooper," he panted, "how do you do this to me? It is witchcraft."

      Not content to be the only one compromised, Molly yanked off his cravat and nearly tore open his shirt to expose his torso. At the same, he worked on her bottom half. Her trousers and pants dropped to her knees and her naked bum was hiked onto the counter. With a quick flick of his wrist, Holmes freed his aroused flesh from his pants and stepped between her legs. His rigid member strained up between her thighs and slid roughly against her folds. He did not immediately claim her though, rather, he jerked her binds down to reveal her breasts. An instant later, a hot, wet tongue swirled a nipple into his mouth.

     "Unh," she squeezed his shoulders and bent against him while his lips and teeth pulled gently on her aching flesh.

     Her core infused with warmth and wetness at the feel of his pull. When his mouth moved to her other breast, cool air on her wet flesh caused her still-tingling nipple to contract. She sucked in a breath through her teeth to prevent a whimper from escaping her lips. At any moment, someone could walk into the room. However, the fear of discovery heightened her arousal. Again, her insides flushed with greedy anticipation. She could just imagine the two of them caught in action, of someone bearing witness to the flexing of Holmes' arse as he drove madly into her body. This time, she could not hold back a moan.

     "Hmm, are you ready for me?" Holmes asked gruffly.

     Molly nodded with a vigorous wag of her head. 

     "Open yourself to me," he instructed with a rasp.

     She kicked off the trousers that hung from one leg and pulled back her knees until her stomach muscles burned with the effort. Her loose chest binds fell down around her waist. Holmes' gaze slid down her form like a caress. Fingers parted her lower lips and positioned his head. Before she could take a full breath, he rutted inside her in one, breath-stealing plunge without breaking eye contact. She gasped, clung to him with trembling hands and hooked her legs over his rear. A huff spurted from his lips. He adjusted and then thrust until her groin was stretched to its limit. A raw, primal groan filled her ears. He bucked and pulled back slightly to thrust into her again. At her back, glass implements rattled on the counter. Another, equally satisfied sound issued from deep within his chest. Then, he fell into a powerful, needy rhythm that pinioned her atop the counter and conformed her body to his unyielding cudgel.

     Molly lost herself to the repetition of his invasion. Countless times he stroked into her marked only by an ever increasing ache of tension and the sound of things toppling over around them. Her eyes fluttered open every so often to encounter a realm where everything was bright and overwhelming. The jars with their blanched specimens shone like amber and the sun's rays burned from reflected surfaces. When she closed her eyes, their pleasure echoed back to her ears like a symphony of crescendoing lust. She squeezed her eyes tighter after awhile and clenched on him as she approached her release. Inside, she pleaded for deliverance. Soon her attention was fixed almost entirely on what was happening between her legs and she began to feel a great unraveling.

     "Holmes, Holmes, uuuunh, dear god . . ."

      He picked her up then and in a few steps, slammed her against the nearest wall. Their damp bodies stuck together between their open shirts. The renewed claim of him made her throb in the pits of her belly. She locked her arms around his neck and legs around his waist.

      "Come for me," he rasped in her ear, gripped her bum tightly and stroked hard into her body, "yes, mmph, you are so deliciously wet for me."

      Molly's head slid against the wall, her hair crackled. "I am there . . . oh, god, I am . . ."

       "Yes," he thrust her back roughly up the wall, "yes."

       With that, Molly's tension reached a tipping point and pleasure flooded her body. Her inner walls contracted on him and then released with waves of pulses. Holmes swore and bucked into her one last time. Inside her, his shaft surged with his orgasm, emptied and began to lose its rigidity. For a spell, they remained entwined against the wall. Every so often, his body twitched and his shaft flexed until finally, she was limp in his arms and he labored to hold her up. Stiffly, he shuffled back to the bench and placed her bum upon it before withdrawing. As ever, his departure left her feeling vacant. 

     She watched in silence as he retrieved a towel from a drawer near the room's only sink. Heat crept into her face as he cleaned his shaft. His hooded gaze lingered upon her face. He blinked lazily a couple times as if reliving the pleasure of their coupling. 

     "I assume you wish to do the same," he presented her the towel.

     Molly took it shyly. Her face burned while she wiped away the evidence of what they had just done. Holmes tipped her chin up with his finger. His eyes bored into hers as if he were a bit perturbed.

     "Do not ever be ashamed of what you do with me, Hooper. I am going to be your husband. This is natural . . . this is  _right_."

     "This? Here? This was wholly wrong!" she whispered harshly.

     Holmes smirked. "Then it was the right kind of wrong."

     She hopped off the counter and jabbed a finger at him. "Do not!"

     He raised his brows. "Do not what?"

     "Do not be you right now. You are entirely too smug and y-you should not be proud of yourself for seducing me!"

     Molly started gathering her clothes. Sherlock laughed.

     "Seduce you?" he scoffed in a high tone. "Seduce you!?"

     She ignored him and hastily pulled on her clothes while he rearranged his own. She swore as she stuffed her hair back under her wig and glanced around. When she didn't immediately find her missing item, she dropped down on all fours to peer under the nearest shelf. Anxiousness and confusion washed through her frame.

     "Oh, for pity's sake," she cried, "where did it go?"

     Her voice cracked. Suddenly, she wanted to bawl. She was beyond confused by her sudden rush of emotion.

     "What have you misplaced?" 

     "My m-mustache!"

     Her eyes watered. Yet again, she had gotten carried away and risked her career. She was one final hurdle away from achieving her dream, of becoming a doctor, yet she had tempted fate to upend it all. A shadow fell over her and she glanced up to see that Holmes had crouched down with his mustache pinched between his fingers. She swallowed and sat up.

      "Hooper?” his voice was disturbingly soft

       "No! D-Do not," she whispered.

      "What this time?" he asked gruffly.

       "Do not be nice to me."

       “A moment ago you demanded I not be myself, now you demand I treat you unkindly. What is it that you want exactly?”

      Molly’s lip quivered. “I do not know!”

      Holmes’ brows arched. She expected some glib remark, but instead, he pulled her to her feet and then tugged her wig into place. He huffed a breath through his nose as if slightly disheartened.

     “Better. Do you have your adhesive?” he asked.

     She nodded and produced her small vial of mustache glue. Holmes gently applied a dab and pressed her disguise back on her upper lip. She was exasperated by him, infuriated even. She wanted to hate him, well, maybe dislike him at least, but when it came all down to it, she was never able muster the appropriate rancor. At times like this with his skin flushed from their joining and his face relaxed in thought, he was beyond beautiful. Was she wrong to think there was more to him than what he seemed, she pondered? Was she setting herself up to be crushed by an indifferent husband? 

     “Mm, your disguise is a bit worse for wear. I apologize, this was not my original intention when I came here.”

     Molly frowned and tapped at her mustache as the glue dried. Damn his melodious voice!

     “It was not?”

     Holmes sighed. “No. I did come here to see you, of course, but my initial intention was to ask for your help.”

     “With a case?” she queried.

    He dipped his head. “Of a sort. It is a delicate situation, you see, my brother’s fiancé has called off their engagement and has refused overtures from both Mycroft and myself. I suspect it is something more than just a change of heart. I was hoping that you might pay her a visit.”

     Molly’s brows twitched up. “What makes you think she will speak with me?”

    Holmes smirked. “Empathy? You are engaged to a Holmes, after all. Perhaps she will take pity on you.”

          *   *   *      

       _The next day . . ._

      Molly took another sip of tea as she studied her hostess in the high-backed parlor chair adjacent to her own. Miss Anthea Salisbury was the picture of posh perfection wearing a deep crimson and black-striped dress with her auburn hair rolled into a chic coif. Molly had the distinct feeling she was ashamed of her deportment. Her pale face appeared anxious angled towards the window of her parlor where rain streaked down the panes. Her brown eyes shone as if she had cried in the not too distant past.

     “I know why you are really here,” she said in a flat tone.

     Molly choked on her tea. “Pardon?”

     Miss Salisbury finally regarded Molly with a misery shining in her eyes. “Sherlock Holmes sent you, did he not?”

     Molly grimaced with guilt. She set down her tea and cleared her throat.

     “Miss Salisbury-”

     “Please,” she sighed, “you may call me Anthea. I loathe formalities.”

     “Alright, A-Anthea, do address me as Molly then. Yes, Sherlock Holmes asked me to meet with you. He is quite concerned about you and so is his brother, as I understand.”

     A flush of colour tinged Anthea's cheeks. She laughed sadly.

     "Mycroft? I highly doubt that. I would think he is relieved that we are no longer engaged."

     Molly put down her tea. Holmes was correct, she and Anthea had much in common. Molly stared down at her hands for a tick as she conducted an internal argument about what to say to her hostess. It was clear that Anthea's feelings for Mycroft were as tender as her own for Sherlock. She did not want to insult her hostess, but at the same time, she could not bring herself to temper her words with a lie.

     "He is heartbroken, in actual fact," Molly said softly as she raised her eyes, "I have not seen it myself, but Holmes assures me it is so."

     Anthea shook her head weakly. Her expression took on a faint grimace.

     "I-Impossible. Mycroft d-does not have a heart to break."

     Molly scooted forward and covered Anthea's hands. "Oh, lord, you cannot believe that is true. I have met him. He is not as cold as some would claim. Holmes is very concerned for him. He is not eating at all, apparently."

     Anthea's head wagged defiantly. She wiped her nose with a tissue and laughed sadly.

     "Now I know you are not telling me the truth! There is nothing more Mycroft loves to do than eat-"

     "Holmes said he refused even a fresh plum pudding.”

      Molly felt her stomach drop at the pained look on Anthea’s face. Molly hesitated with her words once again but decided that honesty was still the best course of action.

      “Anthea, please tell me you have a very good reason for calling an end to your engagement. Mycroft thinks you reject him because you are repulsed by his appearance. I would like to provide him with a different explanation, one that will not drive him to any more self-harm.”

     Anthea blanched. Molly gulped back a lump of guilt in her throat. Even though Holmes and she had discussed the necessity of revealing such details in order to draw Anthea out of her shell, she felt terrible causing the woman any more pain.  

      Suddenly, Anthea began to sob. Molly rose quickly from her chair and wrapped her arms around her weeping companion. She cursed. Why had she let herself be persuaded into going along with this subversion?

      “I-I-I do not find him repulsive at all,” Anthea cried, “I love him. I love that silly man to death.”

      Molly squeezed her shoulders. “Then why? Why do you separate yourself from him?”

     Anthea reached into a pocket and drew out a tiny, cotton pouch. She shakily pulled the drawstring and dumped the contents into her palm. Molly frowned down at what looked like some nuts or seeds.

     “Molly, I had to cry off, I had to do it. My father is involved in something . . . something very bad. No doubt you have heard of Mrs. Emilia Ricoletti, the phantom bride?’

      Molly’s breath hitched. A cold tingle crept up her spine.

     “Wh-What does she have to do with your engagement?”

     Anthea looked up at her with wide, petrified eyes. “Nothing, but also, _everything_. Molly, I feel my father has done something terrible. Unlawful even. He is the prime minister. I . . . I would die if Mycroft was maligned by association.”

     Molly shook her head. “Please, Anthea, tell me what has happened. What do these seeds have to do with anything?”

    Anthea closed her fingers over the pods and tightened them until her knuckles were white. “The phantom bride has been spotted on our grounds more than once, Molly. I fear she haunts my father. No, I am certain of it, especially after last week. You see, he received these pips eight days ago. Five orange pips. I thought it was a joke but you should have seen his face . . .”

     “Fear?” Molly breathed.

     “Terror, sheer terror. I asked him what it meant. He could barely speak. He said it was a message.”

     “What sort of message?”

      Anthea’s lip trembled. “Death.”


	24. The Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting along and angst. Is this the straw that breaks the camel's back?

 

 

 

     The tension in 221b Baker street was palpable even from where Molly regarded the scene from a sitting chair to the side of the flat’s parlor. She could almost taste it, like something seasoned with too much salt. Mycroft Holmes paced the floor behind his brother’s chair in a brown tweed suit that was two sizes too large; he leaned heavily on his umbrella with each step as if he was weary from the exercise. Anthea Salisbury watched his every move with despondency in her eyes from the client’s seat. John Watson twirled his mustache opposite Holmes anxiously; his gaze kept darting between each member of the gathering as if he expected someone to combust at any moment.   

     Movement from the stoic Holmes drew Molly’s attention. When she peaked at him, his expression shifted and his frame stiffened in his leather chair. Her heart skipped a beat as he sat forward on the edge of his seat. He was dressed in a dark grey blazer and trousers with a deep crimson and black houndstooth patterned waistcoat. A black cravat was knotted tightly at his throat. As always, his impressive comportment made her swoon a bit. Her eyes slid up to his handsome face which appeared harshly beautiful beneath his severe locks. He frowned and juggled the pods in his hand.

     “Whoever said these were orange pips?” his head drifted up.

     Everyone perked. Anthea's large brown eyes blinked several times and smoothed her hands over her emerald-green day dress. Her fingers fiddled with the black lace trim on one of the flounces that adorned her skirts.

     “W-Well, I just assumed-”

     Holmes expunged a noisy breath through his nostrils. “You assumed wrong.”

     “Sherlock!” Mycroft snipped.

     John cleared his throat hastily. “What is it, Holmes? What about the pips?”

     Holmes turned his head slightly. Molly could see his thoughts tumbling in the little twitches of his face. His eyes constricted as if he focussed his deductive lens.

     “They are not orange pips. These pods too large and irregularly shaped.”

     Holmes blinked rapidly then shuttered his lid momentarily. His eyes darted back and forth beneath them. A thought seemed to grip him and his eyes popped open. As always, Molly found it fascinating to watch his fleeting expressions. His thoughts teased themselves like the shadow of dancers waltzing behind curtains.

     “Shaddock,” he muttered.

     “Excuse me?” Anthea prodded.

     Holmes stretched his neck. “Shaddock, named for the captain who introduced them to the west Indies, also known as pomelo. They are a type of citrus fruit native to southeast Asia. Oranges are actually the product of the crossbreeding of pomelo with mandarins but this fruit has thicker hide, is considerably less sweet-”

      “Yes, yes, shaddock,” Mycroft grumbled, “do you have a point, Sherlock?”

     John gasped. “Wait, this fruit grows in the West Indies? Is this more of Miss Donovan’s scheme then? What game does she play?”

      Holmes frowned. “As I said, Shaddock hails from many countries with warm climates and such. Though, this does not bode well for her . . .”

     Anthea rose, she gripped her handbag with white knuckles. “Is this woman a suspect then? And you know about her?! Why has she not been apprehended?”

      Holmes’ lips turned down and he swallowed. “Miss Donovan was in custody at one point but she, erm, escaped.”

      “How fortuitous! Now she hunts my father!”

       He shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

       Holmes sighed and juggled the pips again. He kept fidgeting as if he agitated. Tiny spasms of a discomfort tweaked his features. Molly wanted to go to him, to ask what was wrong, but propriety kept her glued to her seat. Finally, he ascended from his chair and without a word and wandered towards his sitting room. Anthea scooted in front of him. Holmes frowned at her like she was a pesky insect.

     “Mr. Holmes? What is your plan? My father is at great risk. I need to know how you are going to help him.”

     When the detective made a face, Mycroft advanced and cleared his throat. Molly experienced a sympathy pang for the anxious man.

     “I will protect him,” he said softly.

     Anthea glanced at him, her lip trembled and she shook her head. “That is not-”

    Their exchange was interrupted by an impatient Holmes. He waved his hand dismissively.

     “Yes, see, there you go. I am not in the business of protection, Miss Salisbury, especially not for a man who has likely earned his insecurity.”

      Molly’s lips pulled taut. Holmes was infuriating and so clueless at times for all his celebrated genius. Anthea obviously cared and feared for her father greatly. Molly felt a blossom of anger in her chest for the woman in addition to the burn of mortification for convincing her to meet with Holmes in the first place. As if he sensed something, the great man’s attentions momentarily gravitated her way and she was graced an opportunity to glower at him. His eyes rounded, a slightly confused scowl flitted across his features and facial tick caused his lips to jerk at the corners. For the briefest moment, she held his gaze before his nose wrinkled and he looked away. To her surprise, he flushed and mumbled a reassurance to Miss Salisbury.

     “There is really no one better than Mycroft to protect your father.”

     Once again, Anthea and the elder Holmes traded apprehensive glances.

     “Let me escort you home, Miss Salisbury,” Mycroft offered. “I will speak to your father this very evening and convince him to accept my help.”

     Miss Salisbury nodded slowly and Mycroft let out a breath he had been holding. For several seconds, they regarded one another and an awkward silence ensued. Then, Mycroft snatched up his umbrella and held out his arm. Anthea took it hesitantly and the pair of them said their goodbyes. Molly was left with Dr. Watson and Holmes, the latter whom seemed distracted. He continued into his study. She listened to the scrape of several books pulled from his shelves and the thump of them hit his table.

     Dr. Watson sighed and pulled out his pocket watch. “Well, I should be off.”

     Molly swiped her handbag from the floor and sprang to her feet. She looked over to where Holmes lingered in front of one of his bookshelves stuffed full of tomes, then her eyes drifted around his flat cluttered with curiosities. She could not imagine how she might even begin to carve out her own place amongst his collection and suddenly, she felt like an ill fit. Holmes had barely acknowledged her visit and seemed content to let her leave without doing so either. Never had she felt more like an interloper. She stared at Holmes’ broad back in an effort to will him to look at her as he mulled over a text but he was too engrossed to notice.

     She swallowed and inhaled a shaky breath as she glanced to Dr. Watson.  “I should leave as well. Would you like to share a hack?”

     His eyes flitted in Holmes’ direction nervously, then he nodded. Before she could take another step, Holmes head came up. He snapped his book shut, strode from his study and snatched up his great coat. Molly straightened, shook out her pale blue skirts and lifted her chin.

      “You need not also escort me, Holmes,” she murmured, "I do not wish to be an inconvenience."

      His eyes narrowed as he yanked on his deerstalker.

     “It is quite alright,” Dr. Watson interjected, “I can-”

     Holmes growled without looking away from Molly. “She is my fiancé. I will see her home. Besides, you and I need to go pay Lestrade a visit.”

     Molly frowned. His tone was clipped, impatient. Before she could protest further, his hand was in the small of her back and she was urged out the door. She just made it a couple steps down the stairs when she heard voices. She stopped and Holmes bumped into her, she held up her hand and shushed him. Molly peaked over the railing to see Anthea and Mycroft near the front entry. Anthea’s face was flushed, her eyes red. Molly could only see the Mycroft's back and the downward tilt of his head. He leaned his weight on his umbrella silently for a few seconds. Then, unexpectedly, he slunk down to one knee.

     “Oh, please . . . Mycroft, I-I do not want my father’s problems to be your burden,” Anthea said with a tremor in her voice.

      He inhaled a shaky breath. “Anthea, my love, you will always be my burden. Always.”

      Anthea rubbed tears away but could not stem their flow. Mycroft took her hand.

     “As I hope my burdens will always be yours. Please, please, promise me that you will allow me to protect you, in name and every other way. Please say you will be my wife, once and for all.”

     Molly's eyes stung at the unfolding of the scene. Mycroft’s voice was so tremulous and sincere. She glanced up to Holmes and Dr. Watson. Both appeared comically uncomfortable. John rocked on his heels with his eyes fixed to the ceiling while Holmes grimaced at his pocket watch. They were so awkward that Molly nearly snorted a laugh, then she made the mistake of studying Holmes a bit too closely. Her smile waned. His nose crinkled and lips curled. He appeared  _pained_. The strain at the corners of his eyes was like a dagger to her heart.

     Her gaze returned swiftly to the pair in the foyer as her heart staggered through its next few beats. The ailing organ felt as if it were being squeezed by an unseen hand. She wheezed through her own misery and tried to focus on the unfurling emotional beauty below as a distraction. Anthea didn’t speak, just nodded and in the next instant, Mycroft lumbered to his feet and they embraced. Molly listened intently as he declared his love in a near whisper. She blinked rapidly to stave off a welling of bittersweet tears. She was happy for Anthea but felt wretched with envy. She could not imagine her Holmes speaking to her in such a tender manner. In fact, she found it increasingly difficult to imagine she might ever elicit such sentiment in him. For the first time, she admitted to herself she had been letting herself be swept along in his marriage plans because she had hoped he might feel something akin to what his brother just admitted to his lady love. 

      _"Fool!"_ An inner voice admonished.

     Molly straightened and averted her gaze when the pair kissed. It was too intimate and her heart felt like an apple bouncing along a street. She stared at her own feet until she heard shuffling and the creak and slam of Baker Street’s front door.

     “Oh, dear God, I thought that would never end,” Holmes grunted once the pair finally departed.

     Molly shook her head and peered up at him above her on the stairs. Her temper spiked even as the emotional bruises began to set it.

    “Always, always scorn . . . scorn and derision for such emotions,” she rasped, nearly choking on a mix of ire and sadness.

     Holmes squinted and a muscle flecked in his jaw. She could see the wheels of his mind turning as he formulated his next words. He shrugged and descended the steps. John followed after him.

      “All emotions are abhorrent to me, Hooper,” he muttered as he passed her on the way to the front door.

      Her footsteps faltered at the bottom of the steps. John did not notice and kept striding towards the exit with his counterpart.

     “Even love?” Molly ventured softly after them.

     Her question halted the pair’s advance. Holmes’ shoulders stiffened. He stretched his neck sideways and then spun slowly on his heel. John teetered around with an anxious expression as if he were witnessing a carriage accident in progress. His mouth kept opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

     “Love,” Holmes repeated with a tremulous, irritated voice, “love is the worst affliction of all. It clouds one’s mind and obfuscates the path of clearest reasoning. Love is a frailty and a failure. Look . . . look at what it has done to m- . . . ahem, m-my brother.”

     Molly winced. “It has made him very happy-”

     Holmes stepped forward, his expression contorted in disgust. “It has made him miserable!”

     “So you do not want it for yourself . . . ever?” her voice was barely audible.

     His eyes widened and he scanned her face rapidly. For a moment, she thought she saw fear. He drew in a breath.

     “I do not.”

     She swallowed. Another question arose in her throat and bubbled past her lips before she had time to think.

    “I-If this is your opinion, why would you ever marry?”

     His chin went back, his lips parted, and his eyelids fluttered as if she had just spoken an unfamiliar language. She clasped her hands together in front of her to stop them from trembling. She wanted to take her words back but they were already hanging in the air. She knew in that instant that she wasn’t ready for the truth. She knew it would not be what she wanted to hear.

     John cleared his throat as if he knew that as well. “Holmes-”

    The great man waved his hand at his friend to cut him off. His voice dropped to its lowest tone. For a few seconds, his lips remained in a grim line.

    “I am not marrying you for you to love me, Hooper. Do not ever love me, understand? I forbid it.”

     She wrung her wrists nervously. Her heart collapsed like a fallen cake.

     “F-Forbid it? A-As if you can do such a thing,” she retorted lamely and achingly disappointed in the meekness of her voice.

     His nostrils flared, his next utterances dropped to a gravelly timber. “Listen to me, I do not want your love. I do not want its demands.”

     “Wh-Why?” her voice sounded weak and needy, she hated herself.

     Holmes expunged a hoarse breath. His voice cracked.

    “Because I cannot return it, Molly Hooper.”    

          *   *   *

      Sherlock watched the slight frame of his fiancé as she made her way up the steps towards her front door. Her head was bowed slightly, her shoulders slumped. He slammed a fist against the side of the hack as it jerked away from the curb. He flexed his fingers before balling them again. He feared if he actually laid his hand on the handle by his knee, he would jump from the moving cab and race back to Stamford's house.

     “Holmes-”

    “Do not,” he ground out, his breaths fogged the hack’s window.

    “Do not what?” Watson asked gruffly, shifting in his seat.

    “Do not  . . . _be you_ at this very moment. I need a clear head.”

    Watson snorted. “Right, well, sometimes it helps to discuss these things-”

     Sherlock slammed the side of his curled palm against the window. A crack snaked its way from under his hand to the top corner of the frame. The hack jerked to a stop and the driver poked his head in through the slider at the front of the cab. The slim, toothy man spied the damaged pane and then glowered at Sherlock.

     "Oy! You better have the coin to pay for that,  _sir_ , or I will toss you and your friend out right now and then have you blacklisted for good measure."

     Sherlock huffed and dug into his pocket. He flipped the fellow more than enough to replace all of the hack's windows. The driver grumbled and whacked the slider closed, then they were on their way again.

     "Holmes-"

     "Aarg, be quiet, Watson, and for once in your life, mind your own damn business!"

     Watson threw up his hands. 

     "Fine, Holmes, fine! I will let you navigate these unfamiliar waters all on your own," he jerked his pocketwatch out and shook his head. "How long will we be at Scotland Yard, might I ask? I would like to catch my wife before she heads out to her women's group again."

      Sherlock hiked a brow. "Who said anything about Scotland Yard?"

      Watson sighed. "You. You indicated we were going to see Lestrade."

      "That I did, but we are not going to his place of work. We are paying him a visit at his mother's home."

      Watson's brows scrunched. "What? Why?"

      Sherlock squinted through the rain which had just started to fall and streak down the broken window. He sighed. 

      "Because that is where we will find Miss Sally Donovan."


	25. The Concession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving plot along. Exciting things to come. The story is about to peak!

     Greg Lestrade blinked several times at the sight of his mother staring dejectedly at the window of her small, front parlor. He frowned. The gauzy white curtains were drawn and her only company was a dim oil lamp. She wore an older, taupe gown and her normally perfectly styled white hair was a bit lopsided. Guilt prickled his conscience. He had asked his mother to harbor a fugitive and had not yet entertained the thought that it might be too much of an emotional burden for the elderly matriarch.

     "Mother, you appear rather dour," Lestrade remarked softly, "is there anything amiss?"

     She sniffed and turned up her chin. For a moment, he thought she might give him an earful but her lip trembled instead. Greg swallowed a knot in his throat.

     "Mother?" he scooted next to her on the flower-print settee.

     "Never mind me," she mumbled while rubbing her wrists, "or at least, do not start now."

      He sighed and took one of her arthritic hands. Her simple gold wedding band looked loose on her ring finger. Her engagement stone had turned sideways towards her knuckle. The march of time seemed to beat loudly at his back in that moment. He cleared his throat.

      "Ah, do not be daft. I care about you very much, Mum. Do not ever doubt it."

      Greg's mother sniffled. Her lips quivered again. He inhaled a fortifying breath. He did not know what he would do if she began to cry. He had never seen his mother cry, not once. Not even the day his father died, taken at a younger age than he was then. He huffed and chased away the melancholy thoughts of his own mobidity.

      "Mother?"

      She sighed. "I do not relish being alone, you know, my lad. It is very hard on an old woman."

       Greg clucked his tongue. "But you have a guest-"

      She turned her sharp gaze to her son and snatched back her hand. "Exactly! My first bit of companionship in years."

      His forehead bunched. He shifted in his seat.

      "You enjoy Miss Donovan's company, then?"

       His mother pursed her lips and straightened her shoulders. She swallowed against the prim lace at her throat. Her antique cameo pendant jiggled.

       "I do," she admitted haughtily.

       The expression on her face was a bit defiant. He scratched his temple and tried not to smile. Several nights he had overheard Miss Donovan reading to his mum or entertaining her with stories about her memories from her island home. There were even times they bickered but the pair had developed a tenuous rapport all the same.

       "Lord help me . . . why are you upset?"

       His mother's lips turned down. "Miss Donovan is upstairs as we speak. She packs her things. She means to leave tonight. I . . . I am concerned about her welfare."

       Greg's head whipped in the direction of the stairs outside the parlor. Panic made his blood pound through his ears.

       "What?!"

       He hopped to his feet, then turned quickly.

       "There has to be some sort of mistake. E-Excuse me, mother."

       "Gregory," she called after him.

       He glanced back.

       "Please let her know that she is . . . very welcome here, for as long as she would like to stay."

        He nodded impatiently. His mother stopped him again.

       "A-And tell her I deeply regret if I have caused her any more offense."

       "Yes, Mum, of course!"

       "And G-"

        Lestrade spun and shook his hands. "Dear God in Heaven, Mother! Will you let me go to her?"

        Finally, she relented and dropped a shaking hand back to her lap. Greg expunged a breath as he shook his head and flew up the stairs. His heart raced in his chest as he took the steps two at once. He slowed his pace in the upper hall and smoothed his tweed suit back into place. Fortunately, the door to Sally's room was ajar; she still leaned over her bed and folded items. He heaved a sigh of relief. 

       "A-Ahem, Miss Donovan?" he ventured.

       Her shoulders jumped. She raised her head and cricked her neck before jauntily turning to face him. However, she kept her eyes averted and fiddled with the cuffs of her blue and black plaid dress. His eyes grazed her braided crown and the blue ribbon threaded through her hair. She was particular to blue. Not coincidentally, he found himself more and more particular to the hue as well.

       "Good Afternoon, Inspector."

       "Afternoon, Miss Donovan. I see you are leaving?" he queried, his voice tight.

       Her eyes finally lifted. "Yes, I have arranged passage for myself to New York."

       Greg's throat constricted. "New York?! Th-That is . . . ahem, very far away."

       She smiled brightly but her eyes glistened. "Precisely! I have worn out my welcome here in England, Inspector. Far away may not even be far enough!"

       Greg wracked his mind for a counter-argument but none was forthcoming. He could gallantly swear to protect Sally forever, but that would be a dishonesty on his part. Fleeing England for the United States was the probably only way she could gain her liberty at that particular time. There had been little he could do to help her, she was a wanted woman and had not been forthcoming about any part she played in the deaths attributed to the ghost bride. The prospect or her leaving made his stomach lurch. Would life be any better for her in America? His mind whirled with every dangerous scenario imaginable. There was a sudden flare of pain in his heart. Desperate words slipped past his lips before he could rethink them.

      "Please stay."

       He dropped his chin for several seconds and closed his eyes. He could not believe he had allowed the plea to pass his lips.

        _"I am a fool,"_ he lamented silently.

       When he glanced up again, Miss Donovan stared at him curiously. Her eyes flicked rapidly up and down his face as if she were trying to sort him out.

      "Stay and do what?" she prodded in an icy tone. "Hide myself away here as your mother's servant?"

      Greg winced. "Oh, God, no . . . oh, lord, h-has my mother been treating you as such?"

      Sally sighed. "No! No . . . in fact, she has been kind. Well, as kind as she can be, I suppose."

      She looked around as if cataloging the sparse bedroom. She swallowed. The delicate muscles in her neck strained at the effort.

      "So, then, you would like me to stay for . . . _you_?" her eyes returned like the lash of a whip.

      His chest constricted. She was beautiful like no other woman he had ever known. A ribbon of steel ran through her and gleamed from the depths of her gaze. She wasn't frail at all, she certainly didn't need him, and perhaps that was what was most distressing to him. He felt redundant.

     "Y-Yes, I would like you to stay with me, I mean, w-with us."

      Greg watched her expression change quickly from surprised to contemplative to irritated. Her lip curled with an unpalatable thought.

      "Mm, hmm," her voice reverberated with disdain, "you would have me tend to _your_ needs instead? No thank-you, Inspector, I have had this offer before and turned down richer men than you. I am not interested in being your mistress."

      _Mistress,_ he repeated to himself? Greg's lungs burned as if the air had been thumped from his chest. His eyes widened so considerably that he felt as if they would pop from his sockets. He shook his head vigorously. She'd completely misunderstood his plea.

     "N-No, that is not-"

     They were interrupted by a loud banging from the entry downstairs. 

     "Miss Donovan," Greg stepped forward, "Sally, please . . ."

     She moved away with a shake of her head. The banging resumed. Greg cursed and excused himself to chase off whoever had interrupted their exchange. He tromped down the stairs and flung open the door.

     "Begone-!"

     His voice waned. Holmes and Dr. Watson stood on his front step with quizzical brows. Greg clenched his teeth and glanced up the stairs before returning his gaze to the pair.

     "Dr. Watson, Holmes, good afternoon. Ah, now is not the right time-"

     "Nonsense," Holmes' voice rumbled as he brushed by the Inspector, "in fact, I suspect we have arrived at a moment most opportune."

     Greg scooted around Holmes in his mother's small foyer and stood between the detective and the stairs. Holmes' eyes constricted and glinted with a glimmer of suspicion as he doffed his deerstalker. Dr. Watson peered around him. His mustache twitched. For a few seconds, the three men squared off.

     "Do ask Miss Donovan to come down and speak with us, will you, Lestrade?" Holmes deep tenor reverberated in the small space.

     Greg expunged a breath. There was no use in denying her presence. He had never been able to conceal anything from the consulting detective. He scratched his sideburns anxiously.

      "When did you deduce she had come here?"

      Holmes' lips crooked up at the corners. "Deduce? I did not need any clues to determine your involvement in sheltering Miss Donovan, Lestrade. I just made a particularly adroit assumption from the inevitability of numerous factors-"

      Greg sighed and waved his hand. "Oh, never mind!"

      Above them, a female cleared her throat. When Greg glanced up, he saw Sally descending the main stairs. She had a resigned expression on her face.

      "It would appear I lingered a day too long," she lamented. "Come to take me away then, Mr. Holmes?"

      The large detective gave his hat a shake and lifted his chin. Dr. Watson hastily removed his cap.

      "Not at all. I have come to set you free, Miss Donovan," Holmes murmured before his eyes slid to Greg, "that is, if you would be amenable to that?"

      Sally slowed her steps and then paused and leaned over the stairs' balustrade. Her intelligent brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.

      "What is the catch, Mr. Holmes? True freedom is seldom free."

      Holmes smirked. "Ah, well, you are correct. There is a price to pay. In your case, you must give up the ghost."

      

           *   *   *

      

      Molly's hand shook as she carefully sealed the second envelope with wax. She set it next to the first on her writing desk and stared at the pair of missives for several moments. One was addressed to Holmes' mother and the other to Holmes himself. Her eyes flicked to all the crumpled sheets in the bin next to her heel. She had written several long-winded messages but in the end decided that no amount of words, numerous or sparse, would adequately justify what was contained therein. It was better in this instance, she thought, to cut to the quick.

_"Dearest Mrs. Winifred Holmes,_

_I regret to inform you that I will not be marrying your son. He is a most admirable and worthy gentleman but alas, I have become convinced we will not suit. Please accept my sincerest regrets for any pain I may have caused your family in breaking our engagement._

_Yours, Molly Hooper."_

Her second letter offered a similar vein of bland resignation.

_"Holmes,_

_I would like to convey my gratitude for your having considered me as a potential marriage partner. However, I no longer believe we are a good match and do not wish to marry you. Best of luck in your future endeavors._

_Regards, Hooper."_

 

     Molly swallowed against a rise of bile. Her courses had come that morning. Her recklessness had gone unpunished; physically, at least. She felt another tremor deep in her soul before her stomach turned again. She pressed her lower palms against her eyes as ugly tears tried to squeeze out. She hiccuped and growled sadly through the throbbing heartache. 

      "Aaarg," she wiped away fat drops, "s-stop! Stop it!"

      Still, her heavy tears fell like the first spatterings of a gathering storm. She should have been relieved to discover she had not conceived during their ill-advised lovemaking, and she was in a way, yet she had never been so thoroughly disappointed in her life to start her monthly cycle. She was not pregnant. Holmes didn't love her. Their relationship had run its course. She sputtered a sob and collapsed on her desk. 

      "Stupid, foolish, rube!" she whispered as she cried. 

      When had she let that silly, greedy romantic creature within her gain a foothold into her life's plans, she wondered? When had her biological inclinations become imperatives? She blubbered another sniveling sob over her cherry desk. She was mortified by how pathetic she felt in that moment, at being distraught over the dissolution of her engagement as if she were a freshly turned out debutante whose sole purpose in life had been to land a husband. Her chest shuddered again as Holmes' deep voice reverberated cruelly through her skull.

      _"Listen to me, I do not want your love. I do not want its demands.”_

      "Huuugh," she sniffled, "fool! Foolish, fooling, fool-y, fool-y . . . f-f-fool!"

      Molly pushed up from the desk and vigorously rubbed her eyes. She paced for an indeterminate time until her orbs were raw and her misery could not wring another drip from her ducts. Then, numb,  she snatched the letters from her desk and drifted down stairs in a daze. She needed to get rid of them, to get them out of her sight before she lost her nerve because if she gave in to the still-hopeful voice trying to convince her she might be wrong, she knew that next time she had to face the truth, her pain would be infinitely more unbearable. The sad truth was she could not marry a man who would never return her love or maybe she might have been able to, she debated herself, if only he was able to accept her love. 

      Gomery didn't ask what the letters were about when she found him in the foyer. He looked at her, looked at who they were addressed to and his lips pressed together tightly. 

      "Good Riddance then," he said gruffly before his he glanced back up at her, "I never thought that dandy was worthy of you."

      Molly grimaced and shook her head. "D-Do not speak ill of him to me, Mr. Gomery, and I bid thee, do not do so below either. Mr. Holmes is a gentleman and has done nothing wrong. This was all my doing, _my_ fault. I . . . I am just not the lady I ought to have been."

       Gomery went very red. His spine stiffened. Molly clenched her teeth. Holmes wasn't to blame for her misery. It was her, it was all her. She had fostered hopes of something more and disregarded his every protestation otherwise. He had never wavered from his assertions. She just finally _listened_ to him. He was a man who did not want to be married but was trapped by society's conventions and his own expectations for his behavior as much as herself. She would be damned if she allowed their farce of an engagement morph into an even unwieldier sham marriage.

       "Hmmph, I will not accept such talk from you. You are every measure a lady, as fine a rose as I have ever seen bloom in such shite-"

      Molly stepped back and put up her hands. "I am not. _Not!_ Just, please, see that those letters are delivered and let us not speak of this again."

      Gomery's gnarled fingers clamped on the letters before he tucked them into his pocket. He snorted.

      "Have you told your Uncle yet?"

      She gave her head a single shake.

       The old servant frowned. "Would you like for me to inform him?"

      Molly clasped her hands together as they began to tremble. Unexpectedly, a fresh well of tears bubbled up within her and she had to gulp them back. Her Uncle would be so disappointed. His relationship with Holmes might never recover. She couldn't speak. She just nodded, ashamed at her frailty and cowardice. Gomery's lips turned down and his eyes glossed over. His empathy was her undoing. She dipped her head and fled for her room to face the specter of a life without her Holmes.

      

      


	26. The Predicament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting along, drama to come. What can and will happen in the next couple chapters? Hold onto your butts, the angst is nigh.

     Sherrinford Holmes, fresh from an evening of self-indulgence and feeling a bit tipsy, shuffled up to the dim rear servant's entry of his parent's home. He flicked the brim of his top hat and smirked at Mathers, his father's valet, as the servant puffed on a pipe near the kitchens. Mathers nodded but then shook his head. The valet could probably guess where the young master had been. Sherrinford chuckled as he reminisced about that night’s card game at the Peony Club and the expression on Lord Hedland’s ruddy face when he laid his final hand. The arrogant fop had been apoplectic in his loss, but with all the witnesses to their high-stakes game, his accusations of cheating fell flat. 

     Sherrinford felt his smile fade and then sighed as the night's events replayed in his mind. He had cheated, of course, just not in any provable way. He could count cards like fingers; a skill he used to win many of his contests. Unfortunately, the bit of drama with Lord Hedland had been the only entertaining part of the night. The game itself had barely provided a distraction, let alone alleviated his incessant boredom. He paused and cast his eyes skyward for a few seconds. One or two stars winked down at him through the haze. Then, someone bumped into him, jostling his shoulder.

     "Oy," he called after the figure hurrying past him to the back entry, "what is the rush this time of night?"

     The figure turned. He was a young lad no more than fifteen. The whites of his eyes darted back and forth.

      "I have an urgent letter to deliver . . . oh, ahem, sorry, s-sir!"

      Wide, glistening eyes blinked at Sherrinford in the darkness and the boy stood more erect. No doubt, he was apprehensive at encountering an upper class man in the back lane. Sherrinford squared his shoulders and rolled around his poshest accent in his mouth before he spoke.

       "What could possibly be so urgent at this hour?" he demanded with a dramatic tenor.

       The boy shrugged and swallowed. "I cannot say, sir, I-I am just a courier."

       Sherrinford's curiosity spiked. He stretched his neck and held out a hand. He could not see a package so the courier must have some form of communicae.

       "Best hand over the letter then, son." he commanded as he wiggled his fingers.

       The boy's lips pulled down apprehensively. "I-I was instructed to deliver it directly to Mrs. Winifred Holmes-"

       Sherrinford feigned indignation with a gruff curse. "My mother is asleep at this hour. Give the letter to me and I will ensure she gets it first thing in the morning."

       "B-But-"

       "Just give him the letter, boy," Mathers called from where he leaned against the house, "I will not have you insult a member of my household."

       The boy gulped and jammed his hand in his pocket. He pulled out two letters in his haste. One of them fluttered to the cobblestones.

       "Whoop!"

       The boy scooped the missive before he shakily handed Sherrinford the first letter. Sherrinford eyed the second letter and quickly deduced by its similar appearance that it had come from the same source. Curiosity piqued within him.

        "Another late delivery, have you?"

        The boy dipped his head. "Y-yes, sir."

        "For whom?"

         The boy licked his lips. "Erm, also a Holmes, though not at this address. One on Baker Street."

        "Sherlock Holmes?"

         The lad scratched his temple beneath the brim of his cap. "Y-Yes, sir."

         Sherrinford grinned but quickly suppressed his smile. He did not want to seem too keen to get his hands on the second letter. 

        "Aw, well, you are in luck, my good lad. Sherlock Holmes is staying here at present due to renovations at his home so you may also leave that with me and I will take it in to him. That will save you a trip, hmm?"

          "B-But . . . . I was told-"

          Sherrinford sighed and produced a coin from his pocket. The boy's eyes bugged.

          "For your trouble, son," he rubbed the pittance between his fingers, "now go on home and get some sleep."

          The boy snatched the coin quickly and thrust the second letter into Sherrinford's hand. The lad's face lit with the largest smile as he eyed the generous tip.

           "Thank-you, sir!" 

         Sherrinford nodded and the courier sprinted off. Sherrinford then looked over at Mathers who had resumed puffing his pipe. The valet's lips curved into a sardonic smile, but he only shrugged and turned slightly to indicate his disinterest in the matter. Sherrinford ducked into the back staff passages and made his way towards the steps leading up to his room. Once he found his way upstairs and slipped into his chambers, he flipped off his hat, kicked free from his shoes and sat down at his writing desk. He flicked on his electric lamp and fished out the first letter as the bulb warmed up and the light went from orange to pale yellow. His mouth practically watered at what could be contained within as he carefully teased it open. With baited breath, he gorged on the jaunty script written with a shaking hand.

          

     _"Dearest Mrs. Winifred Holmes,_

_I regret to inform you that I will not be marrying your son. He is a most admirable and worthy gentleman but alas, I have become convinced we will not suit. Please accept my sincerest regrets for any pain I may have caused your family in breaking our engagement._

_Yours, Molly Hooper."_

 

     “Oh, dear me, Miss Molly,” Sherrinford drawled as he scanned the words again, “tsk, tsk, what brought this about?”

     Never had a few simple sentences intrigued him so much. Miss Molly Hooper had decided to break up with his brother Sherlock, how delightfully unexpected! Sherrinford leaned back on his chair, blinked at the brief note and reread it several times. Then he laughed softly and opened the second letter intended for Sherlock.

 

      _"Holmes,_

_I would like to convey my gratitude for your having considered me as a potential marriage partner. However, I no longer believe we are a good match and do not wish to marry you. Best of luck in your future endeavors._

_Regards, Hooper."_

 

     “So cold! Ah, my dear Molly, you are a gem,” Sherrinford practically sang, “oh, this is going to be very amusing.”    

      He just managed to fold the letters back up when he heard a voice.

     “Sherry!”

      Sherrinford’s breath seized and he shot up in his seat.

       “Mother,” he swallowed and turned.

       Mummy Holmes stood at his doorway with a vexed expression upon her face. "What have I told you about sneaking into my house?"

       Sherrinford frowned and gingerly pushed aside the letters. "Ah . . . do it . . . quietly?"

       His mother huffed and adjusted her lavender dressing gown. "Yes, you troublesome boy! Quietly or not at all. Your father's hound roused me from quite a pleasant dream when he heard you come up the back stairs."

       Sherrinford grimaced. "Sorry, mum."

        She tapped her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes briefly. "That infernal creature and his baying will be the death of me."

       "Sorry, Mum," he repeated.

       Mummy Holmes swept over to the armchair near his writing desk and sat down. Her blue eyes burned like the stem of a gas flame as she regarded him intently.

      "What were you up to this evening?” she asked as she settled into her seat. "I am a bit perturbed you did not show up to dinner. I had hoped you would help me convince your father that we should throw an engagement ball for Sherlock and Miss Hooper."

        Sherrinford's lips tugged into a wide smile as he processed her words. A ball! Sherlock would hate every minute of a ball. 

       "Oh that . . . that is a _glorious_ idea, Mother."

       His mother lifted her chin a moment and continued to regard him warily. "Do you really think so?"

       He nodded so enthusiastically he felt his brain jiggle in his skull. Wicked glee made his skin goose-pimple.

       "I find that Miss Hooper rather delightful. We should definitely give her a proper welcome to the family."

       Mummy Holmes began to beam. "Yes, yes, that is just what I was thinking. Though, I am uncertain about Miss Hooper. She may not want the attention-"

       Sherrinford scooted forward in his chair. He was anxious to encourage the idea.

      “She is simply shy, Mother. All women secretly want to be the Belle of a ball once in their lives and, poor thing, this will probably be her only opportunity. Also, their marriage is nearly upon us. We would not want anyone to question the circumstances of their union, would we . . .?"

      Mummy Holmes eyes lit with understanding. She nodded in determination and clucked her tongue.

     “You are absolutely right, Sherry. Ooh, I have been far too indulgent with Sherlock on this. Of course they must have a ball! It would be scandalous otherwise! See, this is exactly the kind of argument I need to convince your father to let the purse strings."

       Sherrinford grinned and glanced at the letters on his desk. It was as if someone had delivered him an early Christmas gift. Miss Molly needed to change her mind about breaking off her engagement, though, or he wouldn't have nearly as much fun. 

       _"You are not going anywhere, Molly Hooper,"_ Sherrinford thought to himself as a giddiness bubbled in his chest,  _"not before you help vivisect my brother."_

      

                 *   *   *

 

         The next morning found the middle Holmes brother sitting across from an entirely too-smug looking Sherrinford. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and steeled his features. His younger brother had been regarding him with amusement during the whole breakfast at his parents’ home which made him think there was more to the last-minute invite than just his mother wanting to discuss his impending wedding. He made a mental note to corner Sherrinford at his first opportunity and suss out whatever his most infuriating sibling schemed.

         "Excuse me . . . what?" Sherlock's head snapped up as his attention was diverted. "Did you say, ' _ball_ '?"

         His mother folded her hands together and rested them under her chin. His father lifted his paper and hid behind its pages.

          "Yes, an engagement ball, this Friday. I will arrange everything. All you need to do is attend."

          Sherlock was at a loss for words for several seconds. His face twisted in a deep grimace.

          "I-I told you ages ago we did not need a ball-"

          "You told me _you_ did not want a ball. Frankly, my boy, it is not for you, it is for Molly. Every girl deserves her own special celebration-"

          Sherlock's bile rose in his throat. "She is not every girl."

          Sherrinford clucked his tongue. "Why the resistance, brother? Are you ashamed of Miss Hooper?"

          His mother gasped theatrically and clutched her chest. "Oh, Sherlock!"

         Sherlock shook his head. His eyes narrowed. The pair of them were too much alike. He was being played and he did not appreciate it.

        "No! No! Do not put words into my mouth," he ground out.

         Sherlock looked to his father but, as usual, he was no help. Sherrinford chuckled under his breath. Their mother pressed her lips together but Sherlock saw the signs of a burgeoning smile. Sherlock felt the hairs on his neck bristle. His stomach turned. He felt off-kilter as if rising waters were threatening to drown him. He pushed thoughts of his duplicitous little brother's motivations aside and concentrated on his more immediate problem. Molly had yet to respond to a note he had sent that morning and her silence weighed on him. He doubted very much that she wanted to feign his besotted fiancé at an engagement ball after what he had said to her at Baker Street. However, the more the idea rolled around in his skull, the more it appealed to him. They would at least get to dance, he thought. His blood rushed as he imagined the evening. He would have the opportunity to hold her close and maybe even rebuild some sort of connection, to remind her that, if nothing else, they shared an attraction that could not be denied.

          Still, he hated a spectacle . . .

          A spectacle.

          His eyes rounded as an idea flashed in his mind like gunpowder. He was in need to make a scene! His heart started racing.

          "What was that, Mum?" he mumbled as his mother's voice cut through his thoughts.

          "I said, I will not allow you to worm your way out of this, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

          Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shot a hard look towards his little brother.

           "I would not think of it," Sherlock replied unblinkingly at Sherrinford, "in fact, I have seen the light. I think a ball is an excellent notion."

          Sherrinford gazed back with a skeptical lift to his brow. His grin faltered momentarily but then he smiled again and took a sip of his tea. Once more, Sherlock reminded himself to be wary of Sherrinford's involvement in the event but his thoughts were quickly overtaken with other plans he needed to set into motion. He only had a few days and much to prepare. Even though the ball was rushed by every metric, there wasn't a family in town who would turn down an invite to a Holmes' ball - an event as rare as it was prestigious.

         "Mother, have you sent any invitations yet?" he inquired.

         She raised her brows. She too appeared somewhat surprised by his enthusiasm. He was glad to salvage some pride, at least.

         "No, my boy, not yet. They go out this afternoon."

         Sherlock smiled. "Wonderful, then may I add some names? There are a few guests I am particularly keen should attend."

         His mother finally perked up, buoyed by his apparent cooperation. "Of course, darling! It is your engagement ball, after all."

         Sherlock looked sideways at Sherrinford with a warning in his eyes. "Yes, yes, it is, hummm?"      

                               *   *   *

      Holmes doffed his hate as he stepped into Dr. Watson's modest town home. He glanced at the sun high in the sky and let out a long breath. His apprehensiveness had not waned as the day went on, in fact, with every passing moment he felt more and more like he was sinking in a murky lake. His own words kept coming back to haunt him.

    _"I do not want your love. I do not want its demands . . ."_

      When the words skittered through his thoughts, Molly's face immediately loomed, pale and . . . in pain? Every time he saw her visage, in fact, her face came into sharper focus as if his mind had taken a photo and was slowly developing it over time. This instance he saw the quiver of her lip and the crinkle at the corner of her eyes as she winced.  

     “What is this?”

      Holmes shook his head stared down his nose at Watson as he sipped at his afternoon tea. He could not recall the moments between when he had arrived and subsequently made his way to the doctor's parlor, yet there he found himself. He swallowed and searched his mind for a response.

      “It is your latest story.”

      Dr. Watson shook his head and set his tea down before wiping his mouth and snatching the latest edition of _‘The Strand Magazine’_ from Holmes’ hand.

     “B-But I didn’t submit a case for publishing this week.”

     With a furrowed forehead, he fluffed out the pages of the newsprint and opened them to where his stories were usually found. His eyes rounded like saucers when he scanned the page.

      “The . . . _The Abominable Bride_?” he gasped. “Wh- Th-This is not one of my stories. Who wrote this?”

     Holmes scooped a biscuit from Watson's tea tray and sauntered to the matching rose-print covered wing chair in Watson's parlor. He pushed the specter of Molly deep, deep down inside him. With a twitch of his brows, he sat down and took a bite of the biscuit.

      “I penned it.”

      Dr. Watson’s mustache nearly jumped from his face as he sat forward. He blinked several times at Holmes then yanked the magazine up again. He furiously consumed the words beneath the peculiar title with baited breath. As he did, his orbs grew until they appeared as if they would tumble from his sockets.

      “'Miss Sally Donovan' . . . 'medium extraordinaire' . . . 'found dead' . . . 'suicide'!!??” he sputtered.

       Dr. Watson dropped the magazine to his lap and leaned back in his chair. He wiped a hand over his face and cursed. He attempted to put together a coherent sentence but his syllables came out as unintelligible huffs and gurgles. Holmes watched him with a quizzical expression for a few seconds while he finished his ill-gained biscuit.

      “Focus, Watson," he finally responded. "One thought at a time. What are you having the most difficulty reconciling at this very moment?”

       Watson dragged in a breath and poked pointedly at the paper. “This is a complete fabrication. I do not recall any of this happening as you described-”

      A wry smile curved Holmes’ lips. “How is that different from your usual stories? Next!”

       Watson’s mouth gaped, then he closed his lips and glowered at his friend. “I . . . I do take some literary license with some details but the . . . the general gist of the story is the truth. G-Good God, Holmes, is this part of some sort of plan?”

      Holmes shrugged. “What did you think our meeting with Miss Donovan was all about? Come on, now Watson, you know my methods. What really has you so disturbed?”

      Watson’s eyes flicked down to the story and back up to Holmes. His nose wrinkled.

     “This reads like something I would have written. It is uncanny-”

      Holmes’ chin drifted up and his eyes narrowed. “And? Oh, frailty thy name is John Hamish Watson! Do you really believe your writing style is difficult to mimic? All one needs to do is pay attention to the composition and they can easily copy your tone and rhythm. You are also partial to certain words and punctuation-”

     “Writing is an art inherent to the individual!”

      Holmes rolled his eyes. “If you insist.”

      Dr. Watson grumbled something and whacked the magazine down his side table, causing the lace runner to flutter and his tea cup to rattle on its saucer. He glanced at his unfinished refreshment with a wrinkle between his brow. Silence followed for several moments as Holmes leaned forward and plucked another biscuit from the tray. The men regarded one another with stone faces. Finally, Holmes let out a long breath.

      “Are you quite finished being offended?”

      Watson shook his head. “No.”

      Holmes rolled his eyes. “Really, Watson, my story substitution was a one-time occurrence-”

      The doctor snorted. “It is not that. Well, it does not constitute the greatest measure of my offense. It is just the hilt of the sword impinging on my ribs.”

      The detective frowned. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His expression twisted in confusion. Watson plucked at his mustache absentmindedly. Discomfort skittered through his features. His unoccupied fingers drummed nervously on his knee.

       “Holmes, I have been your stalwart friend and ally for nearly a decade yet I feel as if I sit with a stranger. Wh-When did I lose your confidence?”

       Holmes swallowed and shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”

      “Why did you not request that I write this story? You know I would have done so if you had only asked. God, but it is not just this, ever since you became involved with Miss Hooper-”

       Holmes inhaled a sharp breath. “Take care with your next words, Watson.”

       The good doctor’s face twitched as if he’d experienced the prick of a barbed hook. “You think I would speak ill of your fiancé?”

       Dr. Watson sighed and dropped his eyes. He expunged a breath.

      “Perhaps it is I who has become the stranger to you, then,” he grumbled and lifted his gaze again, “though, I am at a loss to speculate when this might have occurred.”

       The larger man fiddled with the remainder of his biscuit; crumbs fell to his trousers. He glowered down at them for a few moments, then brushed them off and glanced back up. It took him longer than he expected to formulate a response.

       “I am . . . sorry, my dear Watson,” he replied in a tremulous tone, “if I have distanced myself lately, it is only because you have long served as my conscience and well, lately, my behavior has been . . . _unconscionable_ , to say the least.”

       Watson shook his head. His eyes rounded in earnest.

      “Then let me put you at ease, my friend, as I do not think your behavior has been unconscionable. In fact, it has been exactly what I might expected of someone in your predicament.”

      Holmes’ brow shot up. “Predicament? What predicament?”

      Watson barked a short laugh. “The last one you thought you would ever find yourself in, oh great consulting detective who hath forsworn to avoid all emotional attachments."

     When Watson did not immediately follow up and continued to chuckle, Holmes cursed.

     "Dear, God! What predicament already?"

     "Love, Sherlock Holmes. You are in love.”

 


	27. The Fortification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you hear the swelling of the orchestra? The curtain quivers on the floor . . . .

     

     Friday evening in the Holmes manor found Molly fussing with her skirts in front of the main powder room's ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror. Her dress was gorgeous, of course, but she could not help feeling like a fraud. She inhaled a shaky breath as her gaze poured over her royal purple silk brocade ball gown with its column of tapered bows integrated into the bodice. She half-turned again in the fitted garment to assess the modest bustle with its large bow blending seamlessly in with the heavy layers of shiny fabric cascading to a short train. Her eyes flicked down to her satin slippers dyed to match. A casual observer might almost believe she was an honest-to-goodness heiress in such finery. Yet, if that same person applied a more analytical gaze, they might observe a pinkness in her eyes from a lack of sleep and note a skin pallor that was not unlike one of her corpses at the morgue. 

       For this and more, Molly avoided her own gaze. She did not think she would be able to go through with the evening's farce if she got lost in the miserable depths of her own pupils.

      "Why are you torturing yourself?" she whispered at the feet in the mirror. "Why do you cling to hope where there is none?'

       Her treacherous feet withdrew beneath the skirts again as if they were belligerent children more concerned with their own vanity than her well-being. Molly swallowed against the ever-present constriction which had closed off her throat in recent days. She turned from her reflection quickly and rubbed her chest as her eyes burned.     

     Sherrinford Holmes' voice flitted through her head.

      

       _"Did you know my mother has a heart condition, Miss Hooper?"_

_"N-No! My word! Holmes never spoke of it."_

_"Well, it is not something we advertise. My mother is a proud woman, almost too proud. I worry how she might take a broken engagement, especially since she has planned a ball in your honor for this very Friday."_

_"She planned a ball?"_

It hadn't taken much more convincing by Sherrinford for Molly to continue her engagement after that revelation. She did not want to be responsible for Mrs. Holmes having an attack, after all. Sherrinford had assured her that there would come an opportunity for Molly to beg off her engagement before the wedding, but that he needed to properly prepare his mother for the news and that was best left until the following week after she had seen her doctor. Molly ceded to Sherrinford's knowledge of the situation, of course. Though, she was curious about Mrs. Holmes' condition.

     

      _"And Holmes? Have you spoken with him?"_

_"Well, he is the one who asked me to speak with you."_

_"He . . . he is not too terribly upset with me for breaking off our engagement, is he?"_

_"No, not at all. In fact, he has been going about his business quite as usual."_

Molly's eyes prickled anew with another sting of tears.  _Business as usual._  She gulped in several breaths and tilted her head back as if that might contain her sorrow. That was probably the worst reaction she could imagine from Holmes. She had expected at least his dignity to be injured and endure a heated confrontation. In preparation, she had even practiced every response imaginable to an incensed Holmes. She had never imagined he might be apathetic. She waved a tissue in her face and dabbed under her eyes. For a moment it felt as if a cold cloud had seeped through her chest and bruised it from the inside out. She kept having to push out breaths to try to expunge the pain.

     She thought she had gone in with eyes wide open. She thought she had been in some sort of control nearly every step of the way. After all, she was eight and twenty, not eighteen. It should not have hurt so much. 

     But it did and she was quite convinced her heart would fall apart like an over-ripe tomato when she saw him at last. 

      _Or-_

     It might flutter and take flight, a much more concerning reaction, because for every new height her heart soared, there always followed a more harrowing dive.  

     *   *   *

     Under that very same roof, but a world away, the source of Molly's distress similarly struggled.

_"Love, Sherlock Holmes. You are in love.”_

     Sherlock scoffed and yanked at his snug cravat.

     "Ridiculous," he muttered, "love, bah!"

     Still, Dr. John Watson's smug tone reverberated through his skull. The thought was beyond ridiculous. Sherlock was not in love with his fiance, he grumbled silently! Love was a affliction of weaker minds.

     "If I am in love, then mankind is doomed!" he declared.

     He glanced up at his reflection in the mirror just above the hearth in his father's study and frowned. His hawk-like appearance suffered a loss of intrinsic ferocity with his cheeks slightly flushed and lips presenting an almost _dewy?_ facade. Additionally, no matter how tightly he constricted his gaze, he could not prevent his pupils from glittering. He looked like a whimsical renaissance dreamer, like a man . . . in love.

     "BAH!"

     In his fit, his white tie had come loose. He snorted and corrected its haphazard construction but the moment it encircled his throat, he felt as if it were a noose around his neck. He swallowed several times.

     "Get yourself together, man," he muttered, "just because John Watson says it is so, does not make it true."

     "What fantastical claims is Dr. Watson guilty of, my boy?"

     Sherlock's gaze slid sideways to see his father enter the study. He closed the door behind him.

     "Spurious emotional inferences," Sherlock groused.

     His father laughed and ambled over to his decanter. He poured an ounce or so of his favorite Scotch in a pair of tumblers and added equal measures of water carefully before offering one to his son. Sherlock accepted it, inhaled a fortifying breath and gulped back a mouthful. He nearly spit it back out as it burned on the way down.

     "Oof, lord," he blinked at the spirit, "adding water doesn't temper it at all."

     Mr. Holmes chuckled. "Ah, well, see, that is a common misconception. A good Scotch develops with a bit of dilution. Mm, hmm, a person can enjoy its subtle traits, like the hint of vanilla and fig in this one, without sacrificing its bolder notes."

     Sherlock's lip curled. "That sounds very much like a metaphor."

     Mr. Holmes snorted. "Does it? Well, I suppose everything does when a man is in your state."

     Sherlock groaned, rolled his eyes and shook his hands at the ceiling. "Oh, good Lord, are you all so convinced of your superior deductive skills where my emotions are concerned?"

     The elder Holmes took a sip of his drink. "Mmm, there is only one man here convinced of his superiority in these matters, my boy, and it is not I."

     Sherlock huffed and knocked back the rest of the scotch before slamming the tumblr down on the mantel. His father laughed under his breath.

     "What? What is it?!"

     His father winked. "Ah, now here is a metaphor for you. Rapid consumption only leads to swift inebriation."

     Sherlock felt his guts rumble as he stared at his empty glass with chagrin. He had certainly barreled into an affair with Molly Hooper.

     "Would I have done better with a more metered intake?"

     "Heh, heh, heh, no!" His father slapped his shoulder. "Either way you would have been drunk. Now, go on, lad. Go find your intended. That will take the edge off."

     Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Or completely incapacitate me."

     "Or that."

     The great detective straightened his neck and prepared to leave but half-turned after the first step.

     "Father," he couldn't quite lift his eyes, "i-if I have ever acted contemptuously towards you- "

     The older man waved his hand dismissively. "You have been a fine son and a fine man, Sherlock."

     Sherlock swallowed. "Thank-you. My . . . sentiments about you are very similar. Please forgive me if I ever give you reason to doubt that-"

     His father's eyes constricted. He stepped forward and scrutinized Sherlock more closely.

     "Is there something I should know, my boy?"

     Sherlock rubbed his lips together. He felt a rumble within himself and suddenly, there was a split road in his mind's eye. In one direction lay a narrow, shrouded path that was little more than a game trail wide enough for a lone traveler. In the other direction a wider, more well-worn road beckoned, one which promised amenities and respite. He had set events in motion for that evening and while the desired outcome was as impersonal as it could get, the consequences could be very personally dire for Sherlock in regards to his most intimate relationships.

     "Yes, Father." Sherlock drew in a ragged breath. "Yes, there is something we should discuss."

    *   *   *

     A half hour later, Sherlock was accosted by none other than Mrs. Regina Clairmont as he made his way to what he might describe as his very own personal hell. 

     "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"

     Sherlock's shoulders tensed at the shrill, tremulous tone of her voice as it reverberated down the hall outside his parent's ballroom. He rubbed his lips together and steeled his features before turning and dipping his head.

      "Mrs. Clairmont," he acknowledged with a wan smile as the matriarch approached.

      She seemed to be celebrating her return from her self-imposed exile by wearing an overly-embellished satin gown and elaborate updo of ringlets. The flicker of a nearby sconce danced across the multitude of crystals along her hems and laced into her hair. He glanced over her shoulder to where her daughters hung back with bored expressions. They were not so keen as their mother to draw attention to themselves, it appeared.

      "Oh, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Clairmont rushed out, "I do not want to take up too much of your time but I just had to offer my sincere personal thanks for the missive you sent. You cannot begin to understand what a relief it was to learn of Miss Donovan's, erm,  _passing_. A great burden was lifted from us to learn that she is no longer a threat-"

      "You are relieved?" Sherlock drawled with a pique of interest. "I thought you might be disappointed in her having escaped judgement for her wicked crimes."

       Mrs. Clairmont flushed and waved a pink satin fan trimmed with ivory lace in her face. "Oh, yes, of course I regret that we were denied the satisfaction of watching her hang for my husband's murder."

       The woman's lips tweaked upwards at the corner ever so slightly before she stuck them out and shrugged. She shook her head and smiled, then stepped closer and lowered her voice.

       "Is it true she took her own life, Mr. Holmes?" she asked with a lift of her brows.

       Sherlock swallowed a rise of bile and clicked his tongue. "It is, indeed. She even left a note."

       There was a flash of uncertainty deep in Mrs. Clairmont's eyes. The crystals jittered in her hair.

      "O-Oh? What did she write."

       Sherlock lowered his tone and leaned forward conspiratorially. "She wrote of regrets and guilt, madam. While she fell short of an outright confession, it was enough of a inference for myself and Scotland Yard's finest to finally close the case of your husband's murder."

       Mrs. Clairmont blinked and her chest finally deflated in a kind of sigh of relief. "That was all then?"

       Sherlock licked his teeth. "Mm, there was some rant about her suicide serving a curse or some nonsense. She declared that she was unafraid of death, that it was not the end and that she would return to drag some more sinners to hell. We had a good chuckle about it, as you can imagine."

       The middle aged woman lips pulled tightly across her teeth and she appeared to swallow something distasteful. "Y-Yes. Well, Mr. Holmes, I shan't keep you from your engagement ball any longer. Thank-you again for all your . . . _information_ . . . and your invitation. Best wishes for your future."

      Sherlock stepped back and inclined his head. "And for you as well. May you find peace, if not true justice, for all you have had to endure."

      Mrs. Clairmont smiled but the light did not reach her orbs. The gas sconce next to her flickered at that very same moment and her eyes appeared strangely black and vacant for several ticks. Then, as if she had come to some happy determination, she grinned and bid her adieu. Sherlock watched her return to her daughters with a bounce in her step. When they were out of view, he chuckled to himself.

      "Yes, yes, enjoy your reprieve, Mrs. Clairmont," he intoned under his breath and out of earshot, "while it lasts, in any event."

      He glanced over his shoulder to the ballroom's entry at the far end of the corridor. Guests had begun to arrive, each more lavishly attired than the last. Unfortunately for him, his mother was a bit of a leader among the most influential families in London and they would not want for guests. Inexplicably, he was abruptly and acutely afflicted by the cut of his excessively starched collar into his neck, the restricted encapsulation of his formal attire and the pinch of his new leather derby shoes. In his mind, he approached the entry but when fresh refrains music drifted down the hall and snapped him from his reverie, he realized he hadn't moved in several minutes. The muscles up the back of his neck strained at the sound of a violinist mangling what was supposed to be a fluid double strop. 

      "Mmph, well, that must be my cue," he muttered to himself and urged a foot forward even as it felt welded to the floor, "into battle, then."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 


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